Dark Books, Dark Times
by Hoodoo
Summary: AU. The Team takes on a missing person case.  Little do they know they've stepped into something beyond what they know, and nothing is what it seems. See note inside for more details and warnings on this Lovecraftian crossover.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: No recognizable characters are mine.

Notes: Bizarre crossover alert! I like the A-Team, I adore H.P. Lovecraft and the Mythos based on his works, and my muse (the smelly jerk) (- - that was rude, I really do like him) decided to mish-mash the two. So. If you are familiar with Lovecraft, you know that his writings are horror angst with eldritch horrors, gibbous moons, and ichor-dripping tomes full of knowledge mankind was never meant to comprehend.

Therefore, this will include all of that. Angst, horror, violence, insanity, and death. Hallmarks of Lovecraft, although amped because that's the world we live in today, which means it also includes profanity and non-consensual sexual violence.

Please consider yourself warned. If you do not like or want to read things of that nature, the back button is available.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>"Come on, Bosco! You've gotta pull over—my back teeth are <em>floating!"<em>

B.A. sighed. His mama had taught him to count to ten to damper his temper, but she never imagined just how difficult that could be with Crazy yappin' in his ear all the damn time.

To both counter Murdock and to appease the mother in his mind, B.A. had taught himself to count to ten in lots of different languages. He never let Murdock know that, though, because he knew the pilot would jump in with both feet and try to teach him Klingon or Gallifreyan or some other fool thing, to "help".

B.A. didn't even want to admit he knew what Gallifreyan _was._

"Settle down, Captain—we'll be there soon."

And sometimes if he kept quiet long enough, Hannibal took over dealing with Murdock.

Murdock sat back with a huff. "Not my fault if you go to sell this van and the ad reads, 'good condition. Slight urine smell'."

Face, who'd been trying to distance himself from the conversation, snorted in laughter.

"Fine, fine!" B.A. relented, and pulled the vehicle to the shoulder of the road.

He thought maybe he didn't have to do that, he could have just put the van in park right there in the middle of the lane because they'd yet to see another car for at least fifty miles, but still. No reason for any cops who might happen to come along to stop and see if they could be of assistance.

Murdock yipped a thank you that included a hug over the back of B.A.'s seat—the black man had been ready for it and leaned forward over the steering wheel to avoid the brunt of the embrace—and then he scrambled over Face's lap to get out the side door.

Outside the van and its climate controlled interior, the air was hot and humid.

Murdock slid the door shut again, in consideration of the heat to the men still inside, and walked off the side of the road. He didn't go far; he was a guy, and like most guys, he could piss anywhere, but he wanted a closer view of the river that'd been running parallel with the road.

This was strange country. The grass was dry and brittle, which could be expected in the heat of the summer, but there weren't many bugs. No real sounds either, which was always creepy. He'd grown up in Texas, not too close to a big city, and could remember how still the nights could be, but no birdsong? Really? And how could they be in a small state like Massachusetts and not see hide nor hair of another person for so long?

Finally reaching his destination and standing on the bank, Murdock unzipped his fly and let loose. The water below him was ugly: brown and silty, and moving so sluggishly a thick layer of bubbly foam hugged the little alcoves in the banks.

With the humidity and heat and standing so near the river, Murdock felt sticky and oppressed. When the wind shifted, the smell of urine was replaced with an odd, sickly-sweet odor, like meat just passed its prime.

Murdock wrinkled his nose, shook himself to get that last drop of piss off—that never worked, but that's what underpants were for, right?—tucked himself back in his cargos, and hurried up the slight incline to get back to the van.

Now he couldn't get the odor out of his nose. He opened the side door and found that Face had moved to the far seat, but Murdock suddenly didn't want the near one. It was too close to windows; he didn't want to look at that river again, even if it was just a glance through Hannibal's side window.

He made Face switch seats again.

"Better?" Face asked, slightly sarcastically as B.A. pulled the vehicle back onto the road.

"What?" Murdock answered in a distracted tone. He shook his head, and realized the dry, cool air from the air conditioning cleared his nostrils. "Oh. Yeah."

He hunkered down in his seat, and didn't notice everyone—including B.A., in the rearview mirror—glancing at him curiously.


	2. Chapter 2

They finally made their destination: a town named Arkham. The river tagged along beside them and ran through the city proper; Murdock held his breath and closed his eyes as the van glided over a steel bridge to cross it.

Face, who once had handled the maps before GPS units were commonplace, tapped the screen of the portable piece of equipment.

"This thing's on the fritz," he announced. "It was working fine; now it's just static."

"We'll have to get directions."

"I remember there's a university here . . ." Face mused. "Named after the river? What's it called . . . Muskingum? Muskatonic?"

"_Misk_atonic," Murdock whispered.

Their pilot had continued to be withdrawn and quiet the rest of the ride. The others didn't pay it much mind; occasionally he retreated until real or imaginary things calmed down.

"Right," Face agreed, throwing him a glance. "Miskatonic University. Where there's a university, there are kids with bikes. Kids with bikes know where things are."

B.A. shrugged. It wouldn't be hard to find the university campus; signs were posted everywhere for it. He drove the speed limit through the narrow streets of town, following their arrows. They passed over asphalt and bumped over cobblestone streets. Hannibal cranked his head to look up at the two to three story buildings on either side of them; they were old enough to have settled somewhat and occasionally lean precariously towards each other, over top of the roads.

They caught glimpses of the Miskatonic River, and now and then views of greenery. When the university campus was finally found, B.A. guided the van over a single lane stone bridge to get there.

Murdock closed his eyes again.

Finding a parking spot outside a building—a placard proclaimed it the Student's Union— wasn't difficult. As Face predicted, a row of locked bicycles were lined up along the sidewalk in front of the Union.

"I suppose this is my show?" he asked.

Hannibal grinned back at him. "If you'd be so kind."

Face cracked his neck, winked and opened the side door, hitting the ground with the bearing and swagger of a man who gets what he wants. He disappeared through the heavy doors of the building.

The other three sat and waited.

"The architecture here is fascinating," Hannibal said, still gazing out the window at the old stone buildings, taking a drag on his cigar and directing the smoke out the crack of the window. "Some of it must be hundreds of years old."

B.A. shrugged; info like that wasn't his thing.

Hannibal half-saw the movement, and when he didn't get a response from Murdock, turned to him.

The pilot was chewing his fingernails and most pointedly not looking outside.

Hannibal could be blunt. "What's going on, Captain?"

Murdock blinked rapidly and looked at Hannibal. Not in his face; Hannibal could tell his pilot was focused on the buttons of his shirt.

"Nothing," Murdock muttered in an obvious lie. "I'm just feeling a little queasy."

Hannibal studied him, but didn't have time to say anything more before Face was trotting back up to the side of the van. The conman slipped back into the van and handed Hannibal a piece of notebook paper with directions written on it in a decidedly feminine hand.

"Piece of cake," he bragged. "Directions to 201 High Church Street."

"Co-ed?"

"Yep."

"Got her number?"

"_Their _numbers. Of course."

"Are _they_ over eighteen?"

" . . . I didn't ask."

Hannibal h'mphed at Face's final reply. He smoothed the paper out and began directing B.A. as to how to get to their potential client.


	3. Chapter 3

Their route took them down even older roads. It was Murdock who made mention of the odd, bumpy surface the van drove on; a corduroy road, he muttered, an old, old type of road made of wooden logs to overlie swampy ground. It was the first information he'd volunteered in a while, although no one was surprised he knew such an archaic term.

They reached the address—a gothic monstrosity of a house, all peeling paint and an air of destitution—and the four of them went to the door together. Typically they'd have arranged a meeting in a neutral location, after proper safe-guards and hoops had been jumped through, but the economy was lean for everyone, mercenaries included.

Hannibal had gone through his standard background checks and was satisfied, and since the man insisted on meeting here, with all team members present, the ex-Colonel relented.

After a second knocking, the door was opened.

"Colonel Smith? Please, come in."

The man who bid them enter wasn't as old as to be expected from someone living in a house like this. Early fifties, immaculately dressed in sports coat and trousers, well-groomed—he looked like Face would, in later years.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," Hannibal replied, and stepped up into the house.

"Mr. Smith?" Face mouthed to Murdock.

The man saw the exchange and chuckled. "Common surname. No relation, of course! Please, come in! Please, first door on the left—my study."

The four filed into the foyer, and down the dark hallway to the door indicated. Hannibal introduced them all around, and once they were in, Mr. Smith offered them coffee, or tea? Three accepted; B.A. held up a hand to decline and stayed standing while the others sat.

The study was almost cliché in its furnishings. Bookshelf after bookshelf of large tomes. A fireplace that showed signs of much use. An overly large desk, half covered in papers. The overhead chandelier was made of wrought iron, and although it was wired for electricity, there was evidence it once held candles.

Face mocked shuddered. "I bet if you go pulling books off that shelf, one of them will trigger a door made to _look_ like one of the bookshelves," he joked.

Hannibal smiled and B.A. chuckled. Murdock looked pained, which worried his friend.

Mr. Smith returned with a tray of cups and a coffee urn. He set it on the low table in front of the sofa and began pouring drinks.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" Hannibal asked, holding up a cigar.

"No, not at all. A fine cigar is most welcome."

Hannibal tipped his head; it was rare to find someone so accommodating nowadays. Face slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and found a book of matches for Hannibal.

"Thanks, Face." The older man lit his smoke and took a cup, then sat back. "Thank you, Mr. Smith. Now, if you don't mind getting directly to business . . ."

"Of course. I understand you're busy men." Mr. Smith took a cup of his own and settled into the wingback chair across them. "I've done my research. I know that you four can get results that others can't."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," murmured Face, taking a swig of his drink. It wasn't an insolent reply.

Mr. Smith smiled. "Yes. Well. My problem is two-fold. One, a good friend of mine has gone missing. We corresponded frequently, and then suddenly, there was nothing. No letters, no telegrams, no word. I'd like to have him found."

"Telegrams?" B.A. scoffed.

The man regarded him with a cool look. "Arkham is a bit behind in technology, Mr. Baracus. It also seems to in some type of dead zone—digital equipment and electronics that receive satellite information don't work well. My friends and colleagues keep in touch mostly with letters.

"It's a dying art, the act of letter writing."

B.A. didn't look convinced, but didn't contradict any more.

Face mused aloud, "Maybe your friend doesn't want to be found."

Mr. Smith turned his attention back to him. "Perhaps. But we were close friends, and find it difficult to believe he'd just stop responding to my queries. His research was consuming, but he always took the time to keep me updated."

"You've gone through all the proper channels, I assume?" Hannibal asked.

With the hesitation and thoughtful tap on the side of his cup, the team had an answer before Mr. Smith verbally replied.

"I'll admit I have not," he said. "I'd prefer not to have the authorities involved."

"He doin' something illegal?" B.A. again.

Mr. Smith shook his head. "No. Not . . . illegal, per say. Not widely accepted, I'll admit, but not explicitly illegal."

The four teammates waited, but he didn't expound on it any further.

Hannibal chuckled. It was a dry, dismissive sound. "You're going to have to give us more information than that, Mr. Smith. We need to know what we're getting into, if we agree to take this assignment."

"I understand." The man sighed, paused, and came to a conclusion. "I trust you'll be discreet?"

He received nods.

"My friend, Mr. Richard Jones, was involved in . . . a type of demonology research. He believed that there are certain books that are keys and certain places in the world that are doors, and that the proper key with the proper door would yield results. He believed that the proper combination could open a . . . gateway, if you will, to something beyond what we know."

No one replied for a moment, and then B.A. couldn't contain another scoffing noise.

The silence broken, Hannibal said, "You talk about him in the past tense. You think he's dead?"

Mr. Smith finally seemed discomfited. "I don't honestly know. I certainly hope not, but—well, as you can imagine, if there is a genuine investigator in the field of study, there are also . . . non-professionals in it too. People who believe in it in a different way. A . . . fanatical way. A _cultish_ way."

Hannibal nodded and pulled on his cigar, watching Mr. Smith through the smoke he exhaled.

Face's attention bounced back and forth between the two men like he was watching a tennis match. When neither of them spoke for a moment, he said,

"Mr. Smith, you mentioned two problems?"

"Yes! I would like Mr. Jones found. Second, before he disappeared he mentioned a carving he'd come across. I'd like that statue."

He paused, as if waiting for B.A. to make another snort. When one was not forthcoming, he smiled.

"I collect antiquities and curiosities," he explained. "The carving as described by Mr. Jones seemed . . . right up my alley, to use the vernacular, and I would be interested in examining it and possibly adding it to my collection."

"So find your friend, plus or minus find this statue."

In the process of taking another sip of coffee, Mr. Smith halted. "Oh. I may have misstated my interests," he answered serenely. "I'd like you first and foremost to find the statue, plus or minus find my friend."


	4. Chapter 4

Once back in the van, B.A. drove off down the road and around the corner. It was never good business to let a potential client see them discussing a job. He stopped the vehicle a few blocks away, and parked along the side of the road.

Hannibal shifted in his seat to face the other three more directly. "Well?" he asked, as they knew he would. "What do you think?"

"I think that guy stepped out of 1890," B.A. replied.

Face half nodded.

After leaving the house and slipping into his preferred spot in the van, Murdock had pulled his knees up to his chest—ignoring B.A.'s angry looks that his feet were on the upholstery—and sat awkwardly in the bucket seat the entire drive. He muttered something behind his legs.

"What was that, Captain?"

He lifted his head. "I don't think we should take this job," he repeated very clearly.

B.A. copied Face's half-nod. "Yeah. Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones? Seriously, Hannibal?"

The ex-Colonel nodded thoughtfully.

In his silence, Face deliberated too. His knee-jerk reaction was the same as Murdock's. How strange was that guy—he spoke too deliberately, there was an air of superiority to him that was off-putting, and he wanted a stupid statue more than his so-called good friend? It was fishy. It felt _bizarre._

The man had given them a bit more information: where his friend lived, how he conducted his research and the books he collected for it, the schedule of his travels. That was odd too; apparently he never left the Massachusetts or Rhode Island area, and stayed mostly along the coast. The towns Mr. Smith mentioned didn't ring any bells to anyone, so they must be tiny burgs. And if they were that small, and you already knew the lay of the land, how difficult would it be to find him by yourself, without needing outside help?

But on the other hand . . . Mr. Smith had passed a folded piece of paper to Hannibal, and Hannibal passed it to Face. The monetary amount written on it was substantial.

More than substantial; Face was one of the best con artists working, and he prided himself on being smooth in front of potential rubes—strike that, it should be _strangers_, _potential clients—_but even he had slip-ups now and then. He'd been taking a sip of coffee as he read the figure; the sip turned into a sputter and he forced the liquid down by willpower alone.

"Of course, that's simply a retainer," Mr. Smith had told them, politely overlooking Face's choking. "You understand I'll cover your travel expenses and incidentals as well."

Deep down, Face may be suspicious of the man's motives and peculiar, genteel demeanor, but that amount of cash spoke easily overrode instinct.

Finally Hannibal spoke. "Care to expound on that, Captain?"

Murdock hid his face again. "Just don't like it, is all. That guy is weird. This place is weird. It smells bad and where are all the people?"

Automatically the other three men glanced out the windows. No one was in sight.

"It's the middle of the day, fool!" B.A. told him. "This is residential, people's at work!"

Face shifted a little in his seat. Something in Murdock's tone discomfited him. "There were plenty of people at the University . . ."

The dull gaze Murdock fixed him with made him more uncomfortable.

Hannibal studied his pilot, and didn't say anything more.

Face finally shook himself and his fingers found the crumpled piece of paper with the amount of money promised them in his jacket pocket. Numbers drifted behind his eyelids, and from his mouth sprouted,

"Listen. This guy's weird. So what? We've dealt with weirdoes before. It's a simple missing person case—plus that statue thing, of course—we chase down some leads, figure out if Mr. Jones has gone to ground or whatever, and report back. Piece of cake."

Two sets of eyes looking back on him seemed in agreement; one set peered at him over the tops of his knees and seemed let down. Face could deal with Murdock's silent disappointment of not being supported later.

"You're changing your mind?" Hannibal asked. "You seemed a little put off by Mr. Smith too."

That was the problem working and living so close to the same people so much; everyone was attuned to everyone else's feelings.

"It's a lot of money," Face defended. "A _lot _of money. Enough that we could take a break, maybe, and be choosy about the next job. B.A., you could go visit your Mama. Hannibal, you could head out to Montana and do some of that fly fishing you never get enough time to do. Murdock . . ."

His friend cocked an eyebrow at him, finally slightly amused. Face grinned.

"Murdock, well . . . you and I can hang together. We could hit Vegas, or Monte Carlo or—"

"Or the Albuquerque International Hot Air Balloon Fiesta?"

Face rolled his eyes, but it wasn't horribly sarcastic. "Sure. Why not."

Murdock picked his head up and looked, if not more enthusiastic, at least not like he was only half with them.

"Okay, then," Hannibal agreed. "We'll call Mr. Smith later and tell him we're on."

* * *

><p>They returned to Mr. Smith's house again after informing him by a land line they'd take the job.<p>

B.A. complained about what the wooden road outside his house would do to the shocks on his van. Hannibal made the same comment but referenced his back.

Murdock muttered evilly what the Miskatonic swamp would do if it reclaimed its rightful place.

Mr. Smith gave them their retainer in cash as well as all the information he had regarding his friend's itinerary for his latest research. He mentioned again that Mr. Jones kept a residence elsewhere in Arkham. He gave the address and directions.

When Hannibal asked if he'd gone there himself to look, Mr. Smith gave a wan smile.

"I did, and peeked in the back door. But the curtains were drawn everywhere else in the house and place was locked tight as a drum. And as I don't have a key . . . "

Face sighed and mentally added a 'breaking and entering' fee to the final bill.

Mr. Smith wasn't very forthcoming when they pressed him about this statue he was dying to get his hands on either. He gave them an idea of its rough size—easy to pick up with two hands—and the material it was made from—stone or _maybe_ ironwood—and told them they would know it when they saw it.

That wasn't horribly much to go on, a fact that B.A. mentioned when they left his house the second time that day.


	5. Chapter 5

Back in the sickly sunshine, Murdock pulled his jacket more tightly around himself and dropped his chin to his chest. He seemed very determined not to let any of the swampy water touch his shoes, and stepped deliberately on the wooden logs to get back into the van. The slight perking up he'd exhibited earlier seemed to have been a temporary thing; the visit back to Mr. Smith's house drained his enthusiasm.

Hannibal directed B.A. once more through the narrow streets of the town. He was still interested in the colonial architecture, but Murdock's earlier cryptic comment niggled at him. Where were all the residents?

He shook his head. B.A. was probably right; it _was_ mid-afternoon. This wasn't New York or L.A. with people everywhere, all the time. This was just an old, sleepy Massachusetts coastal town.

Finding the address, B.A. pulled into the driveway and around the back of Mr. Jones's place.

Face made short work of the lock on the back door, and was disappointed the dead bolt wasn't engaged—he like the occasional challenge.

Murdock offered to stay in the van as a lookout, but wasn't allowed by B.A. and suffered through being herded into the house by the black man.

Inside, the place was dark and cluttered. Flies buzzed over the unwashed dishes in the sink and on the countertop. The floors and walls were grungy. Deeper in the house was darker due to the pulled curtains Mr. Smith had mentioned.

Hannibal flipped the light switch.

Nothing happened.

Nodding as if he expected as much, he asked B.A. to get flashlights from the van. B.A. complied. The others stood on the worn linoleum in the block of sunlight created by the open door.

"Quiet!" Murdock said abruptly.

Face and Hannibal stopped all movement.

"I think I hear something. In the walls," whispered Murdock.

"It's probably rats and mice," Face dismissed. "This place is a sty."

But they all listened. Murdock cocked his head, but the other two didn't hear anything. With the intensity the pilot was straining to hear nothing, Face stepped up to put a comforting hand on his friend to distract him. He took Murdock's elbow and gave it a squeeze. Murdock jumped and gave Face the same dull look he'd given in the van, like he was vacant and didn't recognize him.

Luckily, B.A. brought in the flashlights before Murdock could creep him out further.

Hannibal led the way through the small rooms of the house, sweeping their flashlights everywhere, looking for evidence of Mr. Jones's whereabouts. He wasn't found, alive or dead—there'd been no tell-tale odor of that, but you never knew—which would have made this job too easy.

They did locate the spare bedroom he must have used as his study.

It wasn't as cliché or impressive as Mr. Smith's study, but with the heavy drapes pulled, it was just as dark. Mostly, it was messy, with papers strewn everywhere and books piled on all available surfaces instead of bookshelves. There were dirty dishes scattered here and there too, and the scurrying of tiny feet seemed to prove Face's comment of mice and rats being a problem correct.

"Well," said Hannibal, "let's get started."

He didn't light his cigar, due to the mounds of paper everywhere, but held one clamped in his teeth. He and Face went to the overflowing desk. B.A. picked a spot in the vicinity of a wastebasket surrounded by crumpled papers; Murdock carefully wound his way to a map that had been pinned to a wall.

They settled into a familiar pattern of searching.

Hannibal sorted through the piles of paper systematically while Face started pulling open drawers and digging through the contents.

"If there's nothing there, we'll check his bedroom," Hannibal advised off-handedly, as if this was brand new and no one would know what the next step would be.

Face grunted in acknowledgement.

When nothing came of the first pass, Hannibal gathered a stack of books from the desk and sat in the wheeled chair behind him. He moved to tuck his flashlight under his chin to use it hands-free, but first it swung over to B.A.

"Anything?"

"Naw. These are just standard bills. Electric, cable—no internet on it, but from what Mr. Smith said, that's not unusual."

"It is unusual," Murdock contradicted from across the room. His voice sounded as if he was much further away than the few steps he was. "Who does anything without computers anymore? Who does extensive research without the internet?"

"Smith said that sorta thing don't work here. You already seen it, with that GPS and no cell service."

"Maybe he goes to the University," Face added. "They'd have computers there. Maybe they're so far off the grid they still have dial-up, but they'd have internet access."

"Mr. Smith didn't say anything about him going to research at the University," Murdock replied stubbornly. "He specifically said that Mr. Jones was very secretive about what he was doing!"

Face shrugged and opened his mouth to retort, but Hannibal interrupted,

"Point well taken, Murdock. But his field of . . . study is so out there, maybe the internet wouldn't be helpful."

Murdock shut his mouth and pointedly turned back to the map.

Face cast a glance to Hannibal in the wavering light. Both men shrugged, and Face left his digging through the desk to join Murdock by the wall.

"What's this?" he asked, attempting to change the subject.

Murdock's voice was clipped. "Map of the tri-state area."

Face waited.

Murdock's shoulders relaxed as he let go of his frustration. His voice became its normal modulation. "He's got a route highlighted—" the pilot traced the line made by a black marker on the paper, "—it seems to double back on itself occasionally. It starts here, in Arkham, then goes up to Innsmouth, then Kingsport. There's this circle around Providence, Rhode Island—he even starred it—but the route doesn't dip that far south."

"Stays along the coast."

"Yeah."

"What are these?" Face asked, tapping a series of numbers written in random places near different highlighted cites.

Murdock squinted in the yellow light from the flashlights.

"They look like coordinates. But the longitudes and latitudes are off . . ." He did a quick calculation against the map, using the length of his forefinger and the angle made between it and his thumb.

"These are _really_ off. Most of these aren't anywhere near the East Coast."

"Where are they, then?"

Murdock considered, and then tapped each one as he answered. "Well, this one is a weird one. I'd put it somewhere in the South Pacific. And this one . . . I'm not sure, but in Oklahoma, maybe? And this one is the vicinity of Louisiana or Florida."

Face touched the map too, and picked absently at a small pinhole in the paper as he thought about what Murdock said. With a sudden startle, he said,

"Buddy—did you notice this?"

There was another map underneath the first. The two pulled the pins out of the lower corners of the map they were looking at and folded it back to examine the other.

"Topographical," Face muttered as it was exposed.

Murdock nodded distractedly, studying the areas Mr. Jones had starred and highlighted on this one.

B.A. had doggedly kept searching the crumpled papers on the floor, but gladly gave it up as Murdock called,

"Bosco—hey. Need your opinion on this."

The black man pushed himself off the floor. As he did, he half-slipped on some of the papers littering underfoot, and his hand went to the ground again to steady himself.

Buried in discarded junk papers, his palm landed on something with more substance than tree pulp. It shifted too, and reflexively his hand closed around it.

He thought he grabbed a mouse, because he was damn sure it shifted again, in his hand. He almost dropped it, but it was too solid to be a living creature. Pulling it from the pile, he turned his flashlight on it. At that moment, the bulb in it flickered and died.

"Stupid piece of garbage—" He rattled the flashlight, but to no avail.

"I thought you put new batteries in these, Corporal," Hannibal said mildly.

"Come on, Bosco! You already said that stuff was worthless! Come here and look at this!"

B.A. sighed, ignored Hannibal's slight deriding, decided he should probably shut Crazy up or he'd never get any peace, and dropped whatever it was in his hand. Without thinking he rubbed his hand on his pants to remove the odd burning sensation present there, and joined Murdock and Face.

Hannibal continued thumbing pages of books.

When B.A. finally crossed the room, Murdock pointed to something on the map.

"Okay. Topographical, right? And see—" he kept his finger on one spot on the map underneath, then flipped the top map down and put his finger on the corresponding spot on it, "—these wrong coordinates are listed the same on both maps, but the coast line doesn't match up. See?"

B.A. studied the areas Murdock was pointing to.

"I think I have something here," Hannibal called.

Face left the two by the wall to go to him.

"I found a couple of books that Jones wrote some notes in," the older man explained. He held up two books, plus a few loose leaf papers. "Here."

Face looked down on the one book Hannibal was trying to hand him. "How do you know Jones wrote in them? Maybe he got the books after someone else scribbled in them."

"Cross checked with some of the papers," Hannibal replied. "Handwriting's the same. Take it!"

Hannibal thrust the slim book at him with more force; Face fumbled it a little.

"Boss, you're the book reader, not me. Why . . .?"

"Because I'm pretty sure most of it's in French, and that's not my best language. You speak it, you read it—it's yours."

Face sighed and turned the book in his hand over. "_Cultes des Goules_?" he muttered, mouthing through a translation slowly before glancing up at the man in the chair before him. "_Ghoul Cults_? Come on, Hannibal . . ."

"Go on," Hannibal insisted.

Face sighed again and skimmed the book, flipping through the pages rapidly.

"It is all in French, and Jones wrote some notes in both French and English," he said finally.

"And?"

"It's too dark in here to read it. This looks really old, and the ink is faded."

Hannibal nodded. "Bring it with us, then."

Tucking the book under his arm was Face's agreement.

"Good," Hannibal told him. "Now. How's your German?"

Face groaned dramatically as he twisted his head to read the title page of the other book Hannibal had in his hands. _Unuaussprechlichen Kulten. _Another book about cults . . . his lips moved like before as he worked the translation for this on too. German always looked much more foreign to him than a Romance language, with its longer words. _Unnamable Cults? _No, _Unspeakable Cults. _

Face shook his head and the older man flashed him a characteristic grin to show he'd been joking.

Instead of handing over the book, Hannibal gestured to the desk again for Face to continue his own search, while he started the translation of the German book himself.

By the wall, Murdock waited patiently while B.A. studied the two maps. His fingers traced the markered route restlessly, and thought surely he should be able to see some pattern in the two maps; it seemed just out of reach. He took a step closer to the wall and tried to read the tiny words Mr. Jones had written on it.

B.A. had closed his eyes a moment in thought, and then snapped them open again.

"Move back, fool!" he exclaimed when he saw Murdock blocking the view.

"No—look! This topo map has elevations and everything, but Mr. Jones made some marks here, and here, and—"

"Back up an' let me see."

Murdock did.

B.A. flipped the two maps, one to another. "I think I got it," he announced. "See here, Crazy—the lat and long coordinates he wrote down are the same, but this topo map is _enlarged_. It's the same, but he increased the size and—"

Now it was B.A.'s fingers following the outline of the coast of the map underneath.

"—here! See how the coastline don't match up? Jones blew up certain areas of a topo map, then pieced them back together to make another map. The enlarged areas are the same spots he's got the latitude and longitude degrees from the other map."

"Bosco, you're a genius!" Murdock exclaimed gleefully. B.A. held out a hand to prevent him from launching into a full blown hug. "You're absolutely right! How could I have missed it?"

"You was reading the notes, not lookin' at the big picture."

Murdock nodded happily. "Right! Now, big picture man, did you notice what the notes say? He's marked highest elevation here in Arkham and a couple of other places, but then there's this one says something about a stone circle, and . . . wait a minute . . .

"Bosco, hold the flashlight steady right here."

Murdock handed the torch to the black man and cupped his hands around the spot he wanted B.A. to focus on. As B.A. complied, Murdock used both hands to track the tiny printing on the map.

"He wrote all this . . . here, near Providence . . ." Murdock muttered. ". . . these little marks indicate cemeteries. He's got dates of the earliest tombs and gravestones, and of the latest, if the cemetery is so old it's not in use any more."

"Heard you say the route he drew don't go down into Rhode Island."

"It doesn't . . ." Murdock agreed. He looked up at the man, made darker in the gloom. "But it's obvious they were important, or he wouldn't have marked them."

What could be important about ancient cemeteries, fishing towns along desolate stretches of coastline, and whatever nonsense Face and Hannibal had been talking about? B.A. couldn't even begin to fathom an answer. He did know one thing, however—

"Hey, Hannibal—why in the hell are we here in the dark, digging through stuff like we're in a horror movie? I mean, I know we gotta be discreet and can't open the curtains or anything, but why don't we just get some of this stuff outta here and look at it in actual light?"

Face ceased pawing through desk drawers and Murdock turned to the ex-Colonel as well. The three men watched Hannibal scowl and rub his eyes irritably before he pulled his concentration away from the book in his lap. It seemed to take him a couple of seconds to focus on them, and a couple more to answer the question.

"You're right, B.A.—this isn't the best way to do this. You two get the maps there, Face bring your book. Did you find anything in the desk?"

"No."

As Murdock and B.A. pulled the maps from the wall, Face eyed the book in Hannibal's hands. "You bringing that one too?"

Hannibal's gaze had dropped to the book again and he still seemed elsewhere. He blinked several times before bringing his attention back up.

"No," he replied slowly. "Mr. Jones left some notes here, but they aren't as extensive as the book you have. This just has information cross-referencing other books, and some stream of consciousness rant about how he can't get permission to the arcane section of Miskatonic University's library . . ."

Face narrowed his eyes at the slow speed of Hannibal's speech, and the feeling he had in his gut that his former CO was lying to him. B.A. and Murdock walked over to them, however, and Hannibal stood up to make to leave. Standing aside, Face allowed everyone to pass. With the quick movement Hannibal made to rid himself of the German book he'd been holding, Face had another feeling that Hannibal wasn't being truthful.

Someone who revered books like Hannibal didn't just fling them.


	6. Chapter 6

The sunlight was finally fading, and the decision was made to find a motel for the night. Mr. Smith had made suggestions for some boarding houses in the area, but none of the team was comfortable with that—boarding houses came with boarding house owners who lived there, and would be more likely to remember details that motel workers didn't.

They had to travel a ways out of Arkham to find a suitable place.

In the room, Hannibal spread the maps they'd procured over one of the two queen sized beds in the room, and he, Murdock and B.A. plotted their plan of action to track Mr. Jones.

In the better lighting, it was shown that Mr. Jones had an unnatural obsession with cemeteries, and a few more 'stone circles' plus a scribbled notation of a 'stone altar?' were found.

He'd also written something beside the town of Innsmouth, but the penmanship was shaky and appeared to contain too many consonants and not enough vowels to make actual words in any language.

Face didn't join in the discussion. In spite his lack of enthusiasm shown at Mr. Jones's house, he'd settled into the hard upholstered chair under the floor lamp and immersed himself in the French book he'd been asked to translate. At one point, he requested a pad of paper and a pen.

After a quick search, the only paper found was supplied by the motel. Face grumbled that there wasn't enough actual paper on the pad to do much good, and Hannibal promised they'd stop the next day and pick him up what he wanted, when they were on their way to Innsmouth.

He suggested that Face just start the project by reading through the book first; then, after he had his paper, he could go back and make whatever notes he needed.

Hannibal didn't catch the hard look of "I'm not an idiot" Face shot at him, but Murdock did. As Hannibal glanced up, Face shifted his expression to a more neutral one, and agreed.

The maps were finally folded and set aside. Face watched the activity, then mentioned that Mr. Jones had made an entry about Innsmouth. Hannibal asked that he read it, and the conman flipped backwards from the spot he'd stopped in the book to skim and find the entry again.

"Here," he finally said, then read aloud, " . . . weedy . . . weeds everywhere . . . was informed this is a ghost town—then there's something here about a governmental investigation in 1927, but he doesn't go into detail about it."

"We could get that information," Hannibal half-mused. "There'll be some record of it, somewhere."

Face nodded, but kept his finger on the page to mark it and didn't look up. "Then Jones continues: But some worn—tracks? Trails? show people may still be—live here . . . smell is encouraging but . . . no evidence . . . cemetery too small . . . wrong God . . . ?"

Face narrowed his eyes to focus on the handwritten notes on the margin of the pages and shook his head. "Sorry. That's not the right word. It's not God. He wrote 'wrong _deity.' _What the hell does that mean?"

Hannibal chewed the end of his pre-slumber cigar. Thoughtfully he said, "We were told Mr. Jones was studying demonology. Maybe his thoughts on deities aren't conventional."

"I'd say that's a given," Face snorted. He picked the book out of his lap to showcase it. "This weird ass book talks all about different beings and crap like that. It's like a . . . a book that describes them, and what they can do, and how to deal with them. And I don't mean 'deal with them' like we deal with people—I mean deal with them like spells to invoke them and what to do when you meet them. It's nuts!"

"Grimoire," Murdock said.

"Gesundheit," Face replied automatically.

"No, you're describing a grimiore," Murdock said, not acknowledging the feeble joke. "It's just what you said: a spell book, an instruction book on magic. Not David Copperfield stuff. Witches. Necromancers."

When he stopped, the other three processed his information.

Murdock chewed a fingernail and couldn't stand the silence, so he asked very quietly, "Facey, on those pages Mr. Jones wrote that note? Is there any mention of a god or demon in the actual book?"

Face went to work again in the book, and Hannibal asked,

"What are you thinking, Captain?"

"Nothing," Murdock said, and then repeated it more insistently when Hannibal looked questioningly at him.

Face sighed. "I don't know. I can't tell!" he said, frustrated. "So much of this is archaic and sometimes I can't tell if it's just a word I don't know, or a term that's not used anymore, or what! There's this, I guess—"

He cleared his throat and read, "—from the depths, unseen and weedy—again? _Weedy?_—will come the lesser monstrosity . . . they will breed—no, mate—with people and they and their offspring will serve him, and will live under him, and will adore him, and he will adore them . . ."

As Face's voice tapered off, Murdock asked,

"Any name for 'him'?"

Face held his tongue between his teeth as he continued to scan the page. "The only thing that I could take a stab at is the only word capitalized on this page . . . it's one of those words I don't know if there's an English translation for, or what. Dragon. No, wait—there's no 'r' in it. Dagon. Dagon!"

As his friend said it, Murdock could see Face working the word phonetically in his mind. Day-gone. He closed his eyes.

The room fell silent again, and Murdock realized that he'd made some sound—what, he wasn't rightly sure—that drew everyone's attention back to him. When he opened his eyes, he found he was correct. Hannibal, B.A. and Face were all waiting with an air of expectation.

"Something you'd like to share, Murdock?" Hannibal prompted.

"Oh. Um," he stalled, trying to organize his thoughts. "Dagon is an ancient fish-god. Babylonian, I think. Or Semitic? Fertility and all that typical stuff. Depicted as half man, half fish—"

B.A. chuckled. "Like Poseidon, or the Kraken, from that movie! With Perseus, and Pegasus, and what's-his-name, from Rocky? Burgess Meredith—"

"I didn't say Greek, did I?" Murdock snapped.

Everyone looked surprised. Their pilot was typically easy-going, and took interruptions well in stride as opportunities to go off on tangents. Murdock shook his head and apologized.

"I'm sorry, Bosco. Really. I've been wonky all day, and my brain's protesting the stretching needed to wrap around all this information . . . "

B.A. muttered an "it's okay" and unlike the two previous times earlier in the day, allowed Murdock to hug him. He knew it apologetic embraces were more important to the pilot than thank you, or congratulatory, or 'yay! It's Friday!', or International Pancake Day, or whatever other hugs he might want to give.

Murdock, on his part, didn't force the hug longer than was uncomfortable.

"I think it's been a long day for all of us," Hannibal announced, "and trying to figure out why a Babylonian fish-god is mentioned in conjunction with a New England seaport will take all night. Tomorrow'll be another long day, so we can discuss it in the car. Now we should get some rest."

The statement was given with the tone that he expected them to agree, and B.A. and Murdock complied. They made ready for bed, with a changing of clothes and digging though duffels for toothbrushes and the like. Face, however, stayed in his chair with his book.

"I'm not too tired. I can nap in the van tomorrow."

Hannibal shrugged, and didn't seem to note the slightly defiant edge to Face's voice that, once more, Murdock did. Hannibal and B.A. crawled under the duvet of their shared bed, and Murdock slipped into his and Face's, closer to the middle of the room than near the conman. He watched Face read, and didn't remember ever seeing his friend's lips moving as he sounded out words before, whether English or French.

"Faceman . . ." he whispered.

Face paused. "What?" he whispered back.

Murdock ignored the annoyance in his voice. "Don't stay up too long. You need your beauty sleep. Ha ha."

Face had already gone back to the book and only half-nodded in reply.

The walls of sleep were inching in on Murdock, and the steady breathing of B.A. and Hannibal already under its influence closed those walls even tighter around him. As he drifted off, the last sight he remembered was Face in the chair silhouetted by the lamp behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

No matter what Face said the night before, after he got his ream of paper and a new supply of pens, once they were on the road he went right back into the book instead of napping.

Murdock felt logy, though. Sunlight was supposed to recharge and wake up his hypothalamus so he could function during the day, but it didn't seem to be working. His brain felt mired, like it took a dip in that ugly river, and unbidden, surprising images kept flitting though it. He thought they were remnants of his dreams, but in the manner of dreams, he couldn't actually focus on them if he concentrated.

He tried to ignore it, however, by attempting to draw Hannibal into a conversation.

"Boss, what did you find in that German book yesterday?"

Hannibal jerked and glanced back at him. "What? Oh. Nothing."

"Nothing? Really? You said that Mr. Jones had cross-referenced some other books in it, and mentioned the University."

"Yeah . . . something about the library."

"That he wasn't allowed to go there anymore?"

"Yeah."

"What about the other books?"

"What about them?"

"Was the book Face is reading one of them?" Murdock asked patiently. This conversation was more one-sided than he had wanted it, and much more leading than he was comfortable with.

"Yeah," the older man replied, and went back to looking out the window.

Murdock watched his former CO a bit longer, taking in the three-quarters hind view of the older man's head. Hannibal didn't offer anything else, however, and Murdock thought maybe he had half-remembered images haunting him too.

He didn't even try to engage B.A. The black man exuded tiredness, and no matter what most people said, Murdock could occasionally respect boundaries.

Apparently no one got much sleep last night. Stupid cheap motel beds. Should have sprung for the boarding houses, prying eyes be damned.

* * *

><p>The drive to Innsmouth was just as desolate as getting into Arkham. At least, B.A. muttered, they <em>thought<em> the drive was desolate until they actually got to the seaport. Then they knew the true meaning of the word.

Innsmouth was abandoned. Not like a ghetto, with windows broken if they weren't boarded up and litter caught in huddling little clumps along the sidewalks, but truly abandoned. The buildings they drove passed were weather-worn and rundown from neglect. The road was cracked and like Jones had written, full of weeds.

The scratching sound of Face's pen had stopped, and no one knew how loud it had been until he did.

B.A. steered the van carefully to avoid the large potholes he could see, but occasionally the weeds grew so thickly he didn't know the ruts were there, and the vehicle bounced harshly.

Hannibal rolled down his window, and B.A. copied him.

Now the dry coolness from the air conditioner escaped, and the hot humid air came in. The air was still except for the sound of the unseen surf somewhere ahead.

Murdock could barely contain a gag.

"Buddy—what's wrong?"

"Can't you smell that?" he exclaimed with a hand over his mouth and nose. "It smells like_ rot."_

The deep breaths the other three took answered him before they verbally replied. If they could smell it, they wouldn't be willing to take it into their lungs so readily. Murdock worked very hard to take shallow breaths, to not let that odor invade him, but knew conscious hyperventilation wasn't the best course of action.

Willfully he did his best to ignore the apparently phantom smell, because if no one else could smell it, it had to be imaginary, right?

When he concentrated on that, the smell dissipated.

"What now, Colonel?" B.A. finally asked as he eased them to a stop on the broken road.

"Jones wrote about the cemetery, didn't he, Face? Let's find it."

B.A.'s expression was doubtful, and he didn't disguise the fact that he thought the idea was useless. This place was _dead_. There was no one around to ask about Jones, and if Hannibal thought the guy had just left a detailed message in an ancient, neglected graveyard about what he was thinking, doing, and planning on doing, B.A. would, no shit, French-kiss Murdock till Crazy passed _out_.

But he touched the gas pedal again, and the van inched forward.

They passed more vacant houses, and into a very small, very antiquated Main Street area. This town was so old Hannibal pointed out that the sidewalks were wooden. Rotten-and-falling-apart wooden, but wooden nonetheless.

The sound of the ocean was getting louder.

Murdock leaned forward between the front seats to try and get a view of the coast. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small _something_ dart from between two of the buildings and into the path of the van. He gasped.

B.A. jumped at the sound. "What, fool?" he demanded.

"I saw . . . I thought I saw . . ."

"What?"

Murdock glanced at the others. Like the imaginary smell, no one had seen the dark shape. The realization made him suddenly cold, even with the heat coming in.

"Nothing," he murmured.

B.A. used his right elbow to force Murdock properly back into his seat. The pilot didn't protest, and pulled his hat down further over his forehead as he stared into his hands folded in his lap. He didn't want to look out the window any longer.

Face didn't have that personal restriction, and said, "B.A.—wait. There's a church—I think Jones said something about a church in here. Pull up beside it."

The black man complied.

"Never seen a church this old that doesn't have a cross on it somewhere," Hannibal mused as he gazed up at the building.

"No cross . . ." Face muttered. "It looks like there may have been one carved into the door . . . but it's all slashed and disfigured. Jones had something else about this, I think . . ."

The conman flipped through the French book until he found what he was looking for.

"Mr. Jones was no artist," he announced, "but I _think_ whatever they put onto that church door is what he's trying to depict here."

He held the book open; his finger covering the text but marking the drawing in the margin. The others crowded in to look. Even Murdock glanced up, although he only glanced at the page before ducking away again, and definitely did not look at anything outside the van.

The tiny drawing was elongated squiggly lines. The middle was darker, suggestive of a body, and instead of two blank areas for eyes, multiple holes had been left in random spots. Hannibal narrowed his eyes to scrutinize the drawing, then turned back to the window to look at the church door again.

"I guess I can see it," he said uncertainly.

Face had done the same. "No, it's there. Look!"

He opened the side door and got out of the van, still holding the book. He went to the door.

"See?" he called. "The original carving was bas relief, so whoever did this didn't have much to work with. But! Here's these long lines—" His fingers drew down the wooden surface of the door to indicate what he saw. "—and here, and here are the hollows. Just like Jones's drawing!"

He looked and sounded proud of himself, and didn't notice that two other men in the van squinting their eyes to see what he was seeing. The third man averted his eyes altogether and sunk back into his seat.

"Yeah," Face continued, stroking the wooden door. "Yeah, that's exactly what it is."

"Do you think Jones carved that?"

"No! This is way too old, it's all worn from wind and crusty from the sea spray," he replied over his shoulder.

Hannibal and B.A. watched his fingers reluctantly reach the lower portion of the carving. Face's hand found the iron door handle instead.

Hannibal was half a second behind his ex el-tee's thought process. Even as he warned through the window, "Don't you do that, Temp!", Face gave the handle a hard yank.

Surprisingly, the door opened enough on its hinges for him to slip into the church. He gave no indication he heard Hannibal, and he closed the door behind himself.

"Goddamn it—" Hannibal spit, and he was out of the van too.

B.A. was on his heels.

The two of them thundered up the rickety steps to the door.

"Face, get out here! You can't just go inside a building that's been abandoned for so many years—"

"Face, you're gonna fall though a floor, fool!"

B.A. grasped the handle too and pulled it. Instead of it swinging open easily as it had just done, B.A. actually lost his grip as he tugged. He hadn't expected the wood to stick. He tried again, and again the door didn't budge.

"B.A., what's the hold up?" Hannibal asked.

"I'm tryin', Colonel!" the black man. This time he used both hands, and leaned backward in the effort to pull the door open. "It feels like the wood's warped into its frame! I can't move it!"

Hannibal added his weight to the endeavor. Nothing happened.

B.A. backed off a second, and caught his breath from the exertion. "What the hell, man? Face barely touched that door and it opened like it'd been oiled—"

Hannibal pounded on the door with the flat of his palm. "Face! _Face!_ Unlock this door! That's an order, Lieutenant!"

He paused for a moment and wiped his hand over his mouth, then over his forehead. He flung the sweat off his fingertips. B.A. looked up at the older man, and wondered what his plan would be to convince Face to open the door. Then he wondered what, exactly, made Face go into the church in the first place, and lock the door behind himself . . .?

"What the hell?" he repeated again.

Hannibal gave the door a peevish kick, which also didn't move it an iota, and quickly glanced over the building.

"All the windows are pretty high, B.A., but I think if you pull the van over to the side of the building, we could reach them. Then we can bust one of them out, and since Murdock's the skinniest he can get inside—"

His plan was cut off as he jumped back to avoid the door swinging out and hitting him. Face stepped out. He seemed surprised to see them there, but grinned.

Something was off, B.A. thought. Faceman looked pleased, and . . . what? There was a light flush on the man's cheeks, and an even fainter sheen of sweat on him. His chest rose and fell with a quicker pace than would be expected walking out of a church, for christ's sake, and for a few seconds, before they readjusted to the sunlight, his blue eyes were almost black from pupil dilation.

Whether or not he'd ever wanted to, B.A. had seen Face in states like that. If he was forced to name it, he'd say _aroused._ But that didn't make any sense. At all. All those same signs could be attributed to a hot day, and stepping inside an enclosed, dark building would cause everything showing on the conman right now too.

That's what B.A. decided to go with.

"What the fuck, Lieutenant?" Hannibal spit.

Face's brow furrowed at the question, and his smile faded. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do _I_ mean? What were you thinking, just walking into an abandoned building like that? And locking the door behind you—seriously, Face, what the fuck?"

Now he looked genuinely confused. "Sorry, bossman," he apologized. "I just wanted to see what it was like inside. I didn't think it would be a problem. And I didn't lock the door! Look, there's no locking mechanism on this old thing!"

He stepped further away from the door, and they could see he was telling the truth: the door had an inner handle, but no trace of a lock or anything to prevent it from opening.

The interior of the building was a dark hole, even with the windows Hannibal had pointed out. Hannibal took one step closer to the entrance, and the door eased itself closed just before him, as if the wind moved it.

There was no wind.

The older man's hand reached for the handle, but just before he touched it, Face said,

"What's that noise?"

All three turned back to face the van. A keening whine was drifting from it, out of Murdock.

Face and Hannibal hurried back to the vehicle. B.A. took an extra second to try the door again.

Not unexpectedly, it still didn't move.

* * *

><p>Although he once again resumed the defensive position of hiding behind his knees, Murdock was calmed by reassuring words and petting from Face. At a look from Hannibal, B.A. didn't even tell him to take his damn feet off the seat.<p>

Hannibal still insisted on driving on to the cemetery, and when Murdock steadfastly refused to get out of the van this time, at another pointed look from the ex-CO—and Faceman too, who did he think he was?—the black man only told him, fine, stay where he was, don't touch anything, and do not lock the doors.

Murdock didn't look like he was willing to move anyway.

Just as B.A. had thought to himself, there was nothing in this bone yard. It hadn't been tended for years, so wild grasses and weeds were everywhere, overgrowing the small plot. They had to pick their way carefully to not accidently kick or stumble over gravestones. Due to weathering, any names or dates originally carved on them had worn away.

Face knelt and pulled away overgrowth on a few stones that captured his interest, and when B.A. glanced back at him, he saw the conman was still cross-referencing that book Hannibal had given him and drawing his fingers down the tombstones like he had the church door.

The movement made an unanticipated shudder race down B.A.'s back.


	8. Chapter 8

It was decided that it was too late in the day to drive all the way down into Kingsport. Piled back into the van and with the disconcerting dead town at their back, B.A. and Hannibal argued the merits of at least getting back to Arkham. The trip to Innsmouth had been a bust with nothing to show for it but a lingering bad feeling and still no real explanation for Face's behavior at the church—never mind an explanation as to why the church door acted that way.

After deliberating while driving in the deepening twilight, B.A. decided he was too tired to drive the several more hours. Face had gone back to his book, and Hannibal nodded his agreement; he was tired too. He thought he'd gotten enough sleep the night before, but apparently hadn't because the steady rhythm of the van and the sound the wheels made on the asphalt was hypnotic. He hid a yawn behind the back of his hand and told B.A. to take the next motel available. If one wasn't found, they'd camp out in the van. They'd done it before, and as exhausted as they all seemed to be, sleep would come easily.

Typically when B.A. mentioned being too tired to drive, Murdock was all over him, offering to take the wheel, or keep him company to stay awake with songs and word games.

This evening, however, the pilot remained quiet and withdrawn. That change in character spooked B.A., even if he didn't admit it aloud. Something was going on with Crazy, and that was never a good thing. That usually meant his meds weren't cutting it, and the next step was fooling around with dosages. _That _led to screaming or crying fits or scary lethargy, until another balance was found. It wasn't something to look forward to, and for not the first time B.A. had private thoughts that maybe they weren't the best equipped for a former mental patient's health and well-being.

He pushed those thoughts away. They'd dealt with it before, and would do it again.

The map didn't indicate any exits nearby, so B.A. pulled over in a narrow area meant to be an emergency stop. He made sure to pull the van as far off the road as possible, even though no other vehicles had passed on their way out, or their way back. He decided he didn't really like this part of the East Coast.

The four ate the beef jerky and a couple of apples they'd picked up in Arkham. Just like camping in the van wasn't unheard of, meals on the go weren't either. There was no rush, and being tired made prepping for sleep slower. The van's seats reclined, and even if that wasn't the most comfortable position ever, it was better than folding the rear seats down and sleeping in the back.

Four guys in a windowless van, piled together on one mattress? Any cop worth his salt who came along was going to report _that._

So they pulled out extra blankets and the small travel pillows and gradually settled in. Murdock turned on his side and faced away from everyone, pulling his hat down more tightly over his head. B.A. thought maybe it was to block the brightness of the book light Face had directed down onto his papers. The conman hadn't given up on the translation. French wasn't a language B.A. spoke or read much of, but it must be more complex than he thought since Face concentrated so hard on it.

Hannibal lit a cigar, and directed the smoke out his cracked window. The bitter, familiar smell was comforting, even if most of today wasn't.

B.A. shifted in his seat, readjusted his pillow, and cracked his neck. His knee caught the steering wheel and he rubbed it, and then realized that as tired as he was, he wasn't able to go to sleep. Maybe it was the crackling of Hannibal's ash? Maybe it was Face scribbling even more on his notes? Maybe it was Murdock, obviously already asleep but muttering to himself?

He didn't know. But he suddenly felt restless, and if he hadn't already made the decision to stop for the night and everyone hadn't already settled into the pattern of getting ready to sleep, he would have started his girl right up and continued driving.

He shook his head and now the van felt too confined. The smoke from the cigar wasn't helping; it made everything feel too tight and hazy.

B.A. decided to take a short walk.

Hannibal caught his eyes as he draped his blanket over the steering wheel and the dashboard. The black man held up his cell phone in deference to Hannibal's rule to stay in contact.

Hannibal nodded his acknowledgement and took another drag on his cigar as B.A. slipped out.

He tucked the phone into his pocket as he started off down the road. The last of the sunlight was lingering and the sound from insects was surprisingly loud. The harsh, raspy cadence of crickets and locusts was almost alien in nature, but if he listened hard enough he thought he could hear the melody of it. Almost like words . . . al-azif, al-azif, al-azif—

That was too much like Murdock. B.A. shook his head to loosen those thoughts before they took root.

There was nothing here. Trees grew along the river banks, creating a line of darker shadows, and overhead the stars were blinking on. The night was clear and there was very little moon to overwhelm their dim shine.

B.A. stopped and looked straight up into the sky. He was a city boy, Windy City born and raised, and he never got enough of being able to see the stars. They were rare things in the inner city.

He started walking again, and didn't track how far he'd gone. Still the only sounds were the bugs and the gravel crunching under his boots. Eventually he looked back and realized he could just barely see the square of light that was the window of the van. Faceman must still be working.

He decided his head and lungs were clear enough and started back.

A clear night meant colder temperatures. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

His right hand bumped something. Cell? No, he'd put that in his jeans. Sighing, B.A. closed his fist around it and wondered what toy Murdock had managed to slip into his pocket.

What he extracted was unexpected.

It was only four or so inches long. The color was dark—in the last desperate clinging of sunlight it was hard to determine if it was black or brown. He guessed it was the former. Heavy for its size, B.A. turned it over and over to examine it from all angles.

He could feel small grooves and lines on it, and an obvious flat side for it to stand upright. It was smooth, although he couldn't tell if that was intentional or if the material it was made from gave it that property; he thought it was wooden, but it could be plastic. It didn't give when he pressed a fingernail into it to try and mark it. It was warm from the heat of his hand.

The last of the light faded as he stood trying to puzzle it out.

What the hell was this? He knew he needed to see it in proper light, but he wracked his brain to figure out where it even came from. Although his knee-jerk reaction was it was somehow from Murdock, now his gut was telling him Crazy Fool had nothing to do with it.

In his palm, it felt eerily familiar. Like it fit so well in his hand that it was made for it.

With a flash, B.A. knew. In that guy Jones' house! It'd been under those papers, and he put his hand on it! But he'd dropped it, he_ knew_ he did, his hand had tingled like it'd been asleep and he left it there when he went to look at the maps on the wall . . .

His hand started to prickle again, but B.A. didn't drop it this time.

. . . he must have _thought _he dropped it back on the floor. But he didn't see it there, afterward, did he? He must have somehow slipped it into his pocket instead, and _thought_ it was still on that filthy floor.

Huh. Must mean something.

B.A. closed his hand more tightly around the thing and slipped it back in his pocket. The tingle in his hand abated as he kept hold of it. He decided to keep it secret until he could get a good look at it.

As he started back to the vehicle, the night insects' noises grew louder, as if they'd stopped while he'd considered the object he held.

Al-azif, al-azif, al-azif, al-azif . . .

B.A. grinned and didn't mind that he could almost make out their words.

* * *

><p>Back at the van, his body was tired but his brain felt electric. Murdock was still huddled in on himself, and Hannibal had fallen asleep too. The tiny book light Face was using seemed too bright.<p>

B.A. cocked an eye back at the conman, propped up with the book and papers and the non-stop scratching of that pen. There'd been no acknowledgement when he got back into his seat.

His palm itched, and he idly scratched at it.

"Hey," he whispered.

Still no acknowledgement.

"Face. Hey. Gimme some paper."

Face finally glanced up, a sharp look of annoyance on his face. His lip curled back, but it wasn't the standard Faceman grin.

B.A. had seen that look for most of his life, and even if it came from one of the men he considered a brother, an obvious warning that he was treading on thin ice didn't faze him.

"Gimme some paper, fool," he said in a very low tone. "And one of those pens."

Face never blinked, and B.A. could read quick calculations going on behind those sky blue eyes. In a second, a few sheets of lined paper and a pen were grudgingly handed up to him.

B.A. grunted a response, but didn't drop his steady gaze until Face caved first.

As the conman when silently back to his translation, B.A. started his own work.


	9. Chapter 9

The next day, their alarm clock was the van overheating in the early morning sunlight. They attended their toiletry needs and passed around breakfast bars. Murdock took an offered bottle of water but didn't eat. Hannibal studied him carefully, but B.A. distracted him by asking if they were driving back into Arkham for any reason, or on to Kingsport as they had planned last night.

Hannibal had folded the map down to just the areas of the coast they were traveling on, and traced the route again. He consulted Face.

"What do you think? This doesn't have anything helpful on it, like numbered stops, so even though Jones's route passes through Arkham we don't know if he went home again or what. Maybe he just went down to Kingsport. Any indication of what he did in your book?"

With a mouthful of granola, Face shook his head. "Nope. His notes talk about Kingsport, and there's an address, but not when he visited."

"Are we gonna learn anything new if we go back to Arkham?" B.A. asked. "Are we gonna stop at Mr. Smith's place again?"

Face and Hannibal traded glances, and then both shrugged.

"I guess not," Face said.

"Then we'll skip it," B.A. announced.

He turned the ignition key, put the vehicle into gear, and they started off again.

* * *

><p>Kingsport wasn't dead, to their relief. It was old but bustling, and although it didn't have a University to draw people in, it also didn't have the same odd destitute air that Arkham gave off. At least people here walked the streets. It could have been any other New England seaport town they passed through, if the four of them hadn't the intimate knowledge of each of the city's cemeteries, courtesy of Mr. Jones's map.<p>

The address he'd listed in the margins of the book wasn't a cemetery, to their surprise. It was to a house on Water Street, which, they saw as they drove passed, had a "For Lease" sign in a window. Face copied the phone number on it, and called the realtor.

As luck would have it, they were able to not only find the rental Jones had used, but were able to lease it as well.

It was a rambling thing, with two staircases—one for guests, one for servants—a dumb waiter, a formal parlor, and a bedroom for each of them, plus an extra. It came fully furnished, and Face was able to persuade the rental company to let them have a month-by-month contract.

After a dingy motel and a cramped night in the van, it was nice to have a place to spread out. Once they had claimed their rooms and unloaded the van, Hannibal assigned tasks to each of them. Face had mentioned several places that Jones had written of in his defaced book; they would split the difference, go in pairs, and check them out.

Both Face and Murdock looked upset by the plan, but for different reasons. Murdock just continued to look nauseous and withdrawn; Face exuded distain at the order. He muttered something insolent about not finishing the first job Hannibal insisted on—translate that book!—and that he'd prefer to just wrap it up.

Murdock, who had started in on how he wouldn't be any good at digging up information because he had a headache, abruptly changed his mind when Face mentioned just staying behind in the house as well.

There were times to go along with Murdock, and times to just be blunt. Although he wanted to address Face's sudden obsession with that book, Hannibal decided to deal with his pilot's lack of participation first.

"What is going on, Murdock?" he asked directly.

Usually he got at least some answer. This time it was still vague.

"Nothing. I don't feel well," Murdock replied evasively. "Maybe the sea air . . .? I'm a Texas boy, Lone Star born and raised, and the salt is wreaking havoc on my longhorn-filled sensibilities . . ."

Hannibal watched Murdock shift minutely, uncomfortably, under his gaze. The pilot's eyes never rested in one spot too long, unless it was behind closed eyelids. Hannibal realized Murdock's blinks were half a second too long, which was disconcerting. He didn't know if it was a symptom of some type of mental breakdown, or a conscious effort to block things out.

"Fine," he sighed. "You don't have to come with me. We're going to need food, though, so I'll expect you to at least get to the grocery for us. Understood?"

Murdock nodded quickly, still not meeting his eyes.

Hannibal turned to Face. "And you," he said, in a sharper tone than what he'd used with Murdock. "That book isn't that long. You've been working on it for over a day now. I'd expect you to have it done."

Face scowled. "I already told you it isn't that easy, Hannibal. Yeah, it's in French. But it's_ archaic._ It's written in such out-of-date French that I have to go over it multiple times to make sure I'm getting the translation right. It's taking awhile because it's _difficult._ You want some half-assed piece of work? I'll be done right now. You want it done right—give me some fucking time."

He paused and took a breath, then finished with a snotty, "You want it done quicker, make Murdock to do it. You know he's best with languages anyway."

Murdock ducked and stumbled backwards like someone took a swing at him. The movement startled the other three.

"Crazy?" B.A. said in a softer, more concerned voice than typically directed at the pilot.

Murdock shook his head, and reached up to thread his fingers through his hair. His cap was pushed off his head as he tightened his grip.

Face's tone and attitude changed immediately, and he stepped closer to his friend. "Murdock, hey, buddy—"

"I won't read that book!" Murdock shouted. "I won't read it—you can't make me!"

"Buddy—"

Face moved to slip an arm around him, to bring him back down.

"Get it away from me! Get it away from me!" Murdock continued, pulling at his hair.

Face hurriedly stepped away again, but remained ready to intervene if the pilot made a move to slam his head against anything. He sensed that B.A. and Hannibal were ready for that too.

"_I won't, I won't, I won't, I won't—"_

"Okay, okay," Face soothed. "You won't! The book isn't even here—I left it up in my bedroom. Okay? Murdock, look at me. Look at me!"

Slowly, with his mouth still forming the words, Murdock lifted his gaze to Face's. Face took the chance to step forward once more, and took another chance in taking the pilot's shoulders tightly.

"You don't have to read the book," he assured. "I'm sorry I said that."

He was too, even if his friend's reaction was unexpected and bizarre.

"Forgive me?"

Murdock stuttered to a voiceless stop of his litany and his eyes held Face's for a moment, then he dropped them again and nodded. Face carefully worked Murdock's fingers free of his own hair, and B.A. scooped up his baseball cap and handed it back.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: First and foremost <strong>thanks to every single reader<strong> who has stuck with me so far on this out-there crossover. I truly appreciate each and every one of you, especially if you're taking the chance and reading something with no prior knowledge to the 'weird fiction' genre that H.P. Lovecraft helped father._

_Second, because this is a horror fic and the Hallowe'en season is slouching ever closer, my goal is to post a section of this story per day for the month of October. To do this, however, some of the chapters will be short. Really short; like drabble short. I have tried to break them into to pieces that are naturally separate, so there may be a mirco-chapter of only one characters actions/thoughts._

_Third (and second most important after the **THANK YOU**), once again, because of its horror nature, I want to remind folks that bad stuff is coming up. **BAD** stuff is coming up. Dear Mr. Lovecraft never wrote profanity or extreme violence or anything sexual. However, because this is 2011 and the society we live in has amped up everything, this fic does contain those three subjects. Also, I warn that this is a death fic. Giving warning like this goes against my knee-jerk reaction of "surprise!", but I think due to this fic's nature readers should have some sense of what to expect._

_Thank you from the bottom of my little heart for taking the time to read my story. I would bake you all pots de creme if I could send them in the mail!_


	10. Chapter 10

No one left until Murdock was calm again—_calmer_, Hannibal thought to himself, not completely lucid and pacified. The pilot was still inhibited and now jumpy, as if he expected someone to grab him and force that damn book in front of his face.

When Murdock was finally able, and convinced the others he was able, he took off down the sidewalk towards the corner market they'd seen driving in. He was hunched in on himself, hands jammed into his pockets and the brim of his hat angled down towards the ground because he didn't pick his head up much.

From the side window in the van, Hannibal chewed his cigar and watched him go. Maybe his pilot was right. Maybe he _had been_ right. He knew better than to discount Murdock's observations; the trick was to separate the wheat from the chaff and determine what was real and what was made up in that labyrinthine mind of his. The former Colonel had the niggling feeling that this was a situation he'd misread completely.

But there was nothing to do for it now. They'd best just finish up this assignment with as much efficiency as possible, and get Murdock out of the sea air that he insisted was the problem.

* * *

><p>By the time the three team members had returned, Murdock had finished cooking dinner and seemed slightly more stable. As the others spread out their notes and photos and began discussing what possible connection certain gravestones, certain addresses, and even a certain etched stone set in a building from 1710—Face was assigned that task, as Jones had written it was located in the basement of the place; he was smooth-talking enough to convince the elderly female owner to allow him in. Being easy on the eyes never hurt either, nor did harmless flirting—could have, and what they could mean to Mr. Jones. And if they could puzzle it together and figure out where he'd disappeared to.<p>

Face passed the camera with the digital photo he'd taken of the carved block around the table.

"Is this what Mr. Smith is looking for?" Hannibal asked. "It's a carving."

"He said it was a statue," Face contradicted. "He said we could carry it too, and convincing that lady to let me take a sledgehammer to her foundation isn't going to go as smoothly as just snapping a photo."

Hannibal grunted an agreement and passed the camera back. Face took it and fiddled around with the zoom feature on the camera to study it.

Murdock began clearing dishes.

"This is the same . . ." Face mused quietly. He shook his head. "No, not exactly . . ."

"What, Lieutenant?"

Face rubbed a hand over his eyes. "This is a pretty close replica of what was carved on that church door."

"What? Let me see."

He handed the camera to Hannibal again. B.A. leaned in closer to examine it too.

The older man didn't see what Face was talking about. He could make out some indistinct lines that could be legs, and some areas that had been carved out deeper to represent eyes, but that was only if he squinted hard enough. He was about to open his mouth and tell Face he was imagining things, when B.A. beat him in replying.

"Yer right, Faceman. It's almost exactly the same as that door."

Hannibal's brow furrowed as he looked at the black man, Face looked semi-startled but pleased someone else could see it too, and from the kitchen came the unmistakable noise of a glass shattering on the floor and a gasp.

It may have been a gasp _then_ the shattering, but the two sounds happened so close in conjunction it was hard to determine which came first.

"Murdock!" Hannibal called out, pushing himself away from the table. "You okay?"

"Yeah . . ."

His voice was subdued, even as Hannibal came into the kitchen. Murdock had already starting wrapping a dish towel around his hand, but the blood dripping off his fingertips to spot the floor indicated it was a wound that needed more than a ratty rag.

Standing in the epicenter of blood and shattered glass, Murdock stared vacantly at the floor. Out of habit, Hannibal glanced at it too. He didn't know what his pilot was seeing; there was no pattern he could ascertain. It was just shards of clear glass, sparkling under the overhead light, radiating from its impact point. The dark red of the drops of blood contrasted everything in the yellowed kitchen.

Hannibal shook his head and stepped carefully through the glass.

"Let me see," he ordered, reaching for Murdock's hand.

It was offered without any fight or fear.

The older man sighed as he peeled back the sodden cloth. "This'll need stitches. What happened?"

"The glass slipped out of my hand. It was too soapy from the dish water," Murdock replied. His voice had the inflection of recital versus justification.

Hannibal sighed again. He told B.A. to clean up the mess, and asked Face to assist him in sewing up Murdock.

Later, privately, he puzzled over the fact that neither man came into the kitchen until he called for them. He also thought back on Murdock's explanation; if the glass had just fallen from his hand, where did the gash that needed five stitches to be closed even come from?


	11. Chapter 11

B.A. asked Face if he could borrow the camera. The conman, who'd been gathering his things to head up to bed, looked askance at him. The black man counted to ten, like he did with Murdock, and with effort softened his voice.

"I just wanna study that photo you took again," he explained. "You were right about the church door and it bein' similar, and I'd like to see it again."

Face handed over the camera.

"And a few more sheets of paper?"

The corners of Face's mouth turned down just a fraction, but once again, B.A. let just a little of his natural threat bubble to the surface. Once again, Face reluctantly gave him a handful. He asked,

"What're you doing with it?"

"Yer not the only one keeping notes," B.A. answered cryptically.

Finally Face shrugged, and trudged upstairs. After making sure the camera wasn't going to need new batteries, B.A. followed and disappeared into his own bedroom.

* * *

><p>It was the middle of the night. He was tired. He'd fallen into bed and was asleep almost immediately; usually he slept like the dead until it was time to get up. That was a handy trait in a war and on the run. But tonight, even though he'd gotten much less sleep the previous night and they'd been driving and working and everyone was acting just little crazy, he was suddenly awake.<p>

His palm was itching like mad, and absent-mindedly, B.A. scratched at it.

The house was quiet. There were some normal noises coming from around him: the old place settling, the night insects outside his screen, an oddly rhythmic creaking of springs from somewhere in Face's bedroom's direction—B.A. didn't dwell on that too much—and some indistinct mutterings coming from Murdock's bedroom. He dismissed that sound too. Just like mattress springs from Face's bedroom, nonsensical mumbles from Murdock were commonplace.

There must have been something to wake him up, but his ears weren't giving him the answer. It must just be this damnable itching. Maybe he'd gotten some kind of bug bite when he was out on his walk the night before?

B.A. reached for the lamp beside his bed. He meant to examine his hand when the bulb came on, but his eyes caught the little statue he'd set there before falling asleep.

His assessment in the twilight had only been a little right. It was made of stone worn smooth, but its color was a deep, deep red that was almost black. His comparison between it, that church door, and the photo Face took confirmed what he suspected. It was the same thing in a different medium.

He picked up the statue. It was comforting, and the itch in his hand abated.

Turning it over and over, he was again amazed at how much detail could be made in such a small thing. The crude lines on the church door to represent legs? They were tentacles, complete with round suckers. Some of them ended in solid or cloven hooves, and one was tipped with talons. The hollowed spots meant to be eyes? That was true, but they were three lobed, and goat-irised, and there were so many more than denoted on a flat surface. There were eyes everywhere, all around, including within the tentacles.

As much detail as the carving held, it also contained amorphous, soft edges that were a little off-putting. B.A. knew that it was meant to represent something unknowable, like God. He wished he could capture its true essence, however.

His only foray into art was spray-painting graffiti in his youth. His mama didn't encourage her son to concentrate on something that wasn't going to get him out of the ghetto, and art was not the ticket. Hard work, sports, and the military were.

But he'd had a latent talent for it, and the paper and pen he'd taken from Face were put to use in his attempts to copy the statue and give it more.

The photo that Face took helped.

B.A. sat up in bed, propped his pillows against the headboard and took up the pen again. He didn't set the statue aside; he laid it on his chest and the warmth of it made the corresponding spot there warm too. He used a couple of books and old magazine he'd found as a clipboard and started sketching again.

Just like holding the statue, drawing made the itch subside too.

He was so focused on his work that he didn't know Murdock was in the room until he spoke.

"Bosco," the pilot whispered.

B.A. jumped and choked back a cry, then glowered. Murdock had come in and stood one foot away, just angled enough to not get a good look at the penned drawing. His hair was mussed and he only wore a frayed pair of pajama pants. His lean torso was marked with thin smears of blood from his hand; Crazy never liked bandages on his hands or wrists and obsessively picked them away. The wound on his palm had oozed and wherever he laid his hand, a smudge was left.

A thought flashed through B.A.'s head. _What would that blood taste like, licked off?_

Disgusted by the unbidden self-imposed question, B.A. started again. He lost his grip on the books-cum-clipboard, and they dropped.

"What're you doin' sneakin' up on me like that, fool?" he spit. "Why're you up, anyway? Go bug Faceman."

"That book is in Face's room," Murdock replied, as if that explained his appearance here.

"So what. It's just a fuckin' book. Go the fuck away." If he was being more harsh than usual, it was because Murdock made him think about licking him, for fuck's sake. Funny, though. It wasn't a sexual thing, because he wasn't aroused in the least . . .

Murdock, of course, ignored or didn't recognize the increased callousness of B.A.'s response.

"What're you doing?" he asked, stepping closer and tipping his head to properly see the papers.

"Nothin'—" B.A. started to say, but the pilot cut him off.

"What is that?" he asked, in a tone that says he already knows what it is, but he's asking to verify it. "Bosco, _what are you doing?"_

B.A. was offended. He was no professional, but his artwork wasn't that bad. "Just drawin', fool. You're not the only one with hidden talents or odd hobbies."

The tone shifted from surprise to horror-struck. "Bosco—stop. Don't do that. Please! Why would you do that—it's awful and vile and I've seen that, I've seen that in my dreams—you have to stop, don't you see? It's there, it's in my head and I don't want it in your head too—you have to stop, please stop, please—"

Startled for the third time since Murdock made a ghost-like appearance in the middle of the damn night, B.A. wasn't quite sure what to do. Face or Hannibal brought Crazy back down when he started off on one of his non-stop ramblings, and this was amped, this was a desperate, dismayed plea that he'd never heard before. It was growing worse, too, now between the begging words came a high pitched keen, similar to what noise he made when Face was in that church.

B.A. grabbed the papers and moved them to the opposite side of the bed, away from Murdock. As he shifted, the statue tumbled too. With cat-like reactions, he caught it, but its lazy flash in the light from the lamp caught Murdock's eye too.

The words dissolved and the keening became an open-mouthed wail.

Murdock grabbed both sides of his head and pulled his elbows together in front of his face. B.A. knew that was false protection, and even as he scrambled to get out from under the blankets Murdock leaned forward and slammed his forehead soundly on the bedside tabletop's edge.

B.A. wrapped him up in a bear hug before he could repeat the motion and flipped him onto the mattress.

Faceman brought him down with soft words and soothing promises; B.A. ordered him to shut up and knock it the fuck off. Murdock didn't thrash against him like typical, but B.A. held him in such a position that he was still able to pull his hair. B.A. squeezed him tighter, deciding hypoxia was a form of restraint and it shouldn't be long before the crazy fool had passed out.

Fuckin' idiot! B.A. thought to himself. What kind of crazy fucker does shit like that! Barging in here, scaring him half to death, then commanding he quit the only thing that stops that infernal itching—it was none of his business, anyway!

And now, along with the old, dried blood painted on his chest, there was the sharp tang of fresh blood running down the fool's face from the wound he'd created punching himself with a table edge.

Scalp and head wounds bled like a motherfucker. The blood smeared across Murdock's forehead and into his hair, and down onto the sheets.

The urge to lick and suck that blood—and even rip into the wound with his teeth, so it'd flow even more—was suddenly so overwhelming B.A. barely had enough wherewithal to release Murdock and shove him unceremoniously back to the floor.

The thump of landing knocked the rest of the air out of Murdock's lungs and he lay for a second, trying to catch his breath. B.A. lay quietly too, in an attempt to calm himself down and push away the swirling thoughts of how blood in his mouth would taste so good and how he'd like to—to . . . B.A. shook his head and shoved the heels of his palms into his eye sockets so hard he saw stars.

By the time he'd calmed his own breathing and thoughts, Murdock was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

He'd made no attempt to wipe off the gore. He looked up at the black man on the bed with haunted eyes.

"Please don't draw that anymore," he beseeched in a quiet voice.

It was the sanest, most sincere statement B.A. had heard from him in a long time. He got the distinct vibe that Murdock would get on his knees and beg if that's what it took. B.A. sighed and nodded.

"Fine, fool. I won't draw that anymore. Cool?"

Murdock nodded too, although he wasn't as happy as B.A. would have expected him to be with the agreement.

"You need to clean yourself up. You're a bloody mess. And not that British English way either, so don't be makin' stupid ass accented voices right now. Got it?"

Murdock nodded again.

"You need help?" It grated on B.A.'s nerves to have to ask that, but he knew Face or Hannibal would offer.

Murdock shook his head.

"Clean up and git back to bed."

Slowly Murdock obeyed. He didn't say anything more as he shuffled out. He closed the bedroom door quietly behind himself, and soon B.A. heard the water in the bathroom running.

He sighed again, and knew he should change his sheets. As he got up to pull them off, however, he found the red-black statue hidden in the wrinkles. It warmed his palm again, and he kept hold of it as he tugged at the top sheet. A metallic odor wafted to him, and he decided there was no harm in spending one night in a bed that smelled of blood.


	12. Chapter 12

At the questioning looks the next morning, Murdock apologized and said he would sincerely try not to injure himself any more. He knew it was hard for them to believe that, because deep down, it was hard for him to believe it too. But he felt that if B.A. gave up on his profane artwork and Face finished that unholy book, they could wrap this up and leave it all behind.

Once they were done, instead of going off with Face somewhere, maybe he'd voluntarily check himself into a psych ward for a few weeks. Just to dust off the cobwebs, have someone else take care of him for a bit, and not be a burden to the group.

Murdock kept those thoughts private.

B.A. confirmed Murdock's story, but, just as the pilot had, omitted the information about his sketches sending him into a self-mutilation fit. The black man didn't know why Murdock hadn't mentioned his drawings, but was grateful for it.

Outside was stormy and cold, and although Hannibal had outlined the objectives for the day, no one else seemed motivated to actually do any work.

Face's ennui was palatable, and he ignored Hannibal's plan with a wave of his hand and slipped back upstairs. The older man watched him go with narrowed eyes, and chewed the end of his cigar fretfully. It was obvious by the creaking of the floorboards he'd gone back to his bedroom, and they could all imagine him pouring over the French book once more.

Hannibal didn't say anything aloud, but his irritation at being blown off was read loud and clear by the other two. They scattered too.

B.A.'s hands—both of them now—itched maddingly. Mid-morning he went to his room and found the carving under his pillow where he'd stored it. Holding the piece made the tingling bearable.

The blood stains on his sheets had dried to a darker reddish brown. He stared down at them, a small voice in the back of his head telling him he needed to change those soiled things, that was Murdock's blood, and it was disgusting. But as he rolled the statue between his palms, he realized with a start that the color of dried blood was reminiscent of the color of the statue.

That made him smile, and when he touched the slightly stiffened fabric with one hand while holding the carving in the other, the itching went away completely.

* * *

><p>Hannibal did go out by himself, later that day. Murdock and Face stayed in their respective rooms, and B.A. wandered around aimlessly through the house. He had vowed to the pilot that he wouldn't sketch any more, although why he kept that stupid promise he didn't quite know. Having explored the main living areas, he extended his search to the attic—nothing up there but yellowed newspapers that were too delicate to open and read, and cobwebs—and down into the basement.<p>

The basement was damp and cool, with a packed dirt floor. Under the fly-specked light bulbs, B.A. found some rusted tools. That sort of thing always caught his interest, and he organized them. Hammers, screwdrivers, and awls went in a pile; saws, manual drills, and an old axe went in another.

He liked the orderly division of them. He also liked the quiet in the cellar.

Upstairs, whether the first floor or the attic, he could still hear Murdock talking to himself. Faceman had apparently started in on that habit too, because B.A. had heard odd droning from his room as well. But down here, a full floor away, there was no sound at all.

He sat on the wooden steps and stared at the tools.

* * *

><p>By the time Hannibal was back, B.A. had left the basement and Murdock had wandered carefully downstairs. As an apology for his behavior earlier, he said he'd make dinner, but neither of them seemed too hungry. Face didn't make an appearance.<p>

"I got a few more ideas on leads for Jones," Hannibal told the other two. "I checked out one of them today—it was a book store he mentioned that sells rare and antique books."

"Any luck?"

"The owner wasn't the most helpful person in the world, no," the older man replied. "He insisted he'd never seen Mr. Jones, and when I asked him about the two books, he pretended he didn't know what I was talking about."

"What do you mean, pretended?" B.A. asked.

Hannibal smirked. "He claimed that his store carried books that couldn't be found anywhere else, that he had connections all over the world for antiquities. But when I actually gave him the titles, he blanched and refused to say anything more about the quality of his collection."

"Huh," was all the black man could reply.

"The weather's supposed to be just as rainy tomorrow," Hannibal said, "but we're going out. I want Face to take a crack at that bookstore owner, and I want you and Murdock to head over to the cemetery again. We didn't get the most comprehensive look before because it closed early. I think if you get over there earlier and really concentrate on the specific graves Face said Jones marked down—"

"Wasn't it plots?" Murdock interrupted. "Didn't Face say plots? Those can be different than graves."

Hannibal closed his eyes a moment. "I think it's just semantics, Murdock. The one cemetery is so old it isn't used anymore, so graves or plots, what's the difference?"

Murdock bit his tongue so hard it was visible in his closed mouth. Hannibal looked at him with sharp eyes.

"You with us, Captain? You're going out with B.A. tomorrow. You know that?"

"I know that," he mumbled quietly.

The older man nodded. "Good. You have any problems with that plan, B.A.?"

B.A. held up his hands to show he wasn't against anything. Hannibal nodded again, told Murdock dinner finally sounded like a good idea, and left the room to settle into the front parlor with a book and cigar.


	13. Chapter 13

Like the derelict seaport of Innsmouth, the city of Kingsport was near the ocean as well. That night, when he woke up, B.A. imagined he could hear the sound of the surf over the sounds of the insects.

His hands ached with itching. He thought he'd go mad, if that was an option.

Instead, he clutched the statue, expecting it to help. Like becoming he was becoming resistant or like a junkie needing more and more to get his fix, however, the prickling only slackened a bit, even when he squeezed it so hard his knuckles ached.

He wasn't a man to break a promise, even if it was to a crazy fool, but it was obvious to him he wasn't going back to sleep anytime soon and he needed to do something. B.A. decided he'd get some fresh air.

He left his bed and room and eased his way down the stairs. He did so carefully, and if one of the others opened their door and saw him he'd say he was being quiet so not to wake anyone else up.

No excuse came to mind if anyone caught him slipping into the basement and retrieving the axe before sneaking out the back door.

But no one caught him, so it didn't matter.

* * *

><p>Murdock, from the closet in his own room, heard B.A.'s door creak very quietly open and subtle footsteps of the black man going down the hallway and continuing down the stairs.<p>

The closet was cramped; most houses this old didn't even have original closets, so he was grateful for whatever he had. At least it wasn't a wardrobe made of flimsy, easily broken wood. The closet had a solid core door, like the bedroom, and although two sides were plastered wall, the final side against the outer wall of the house was brick.

Rationally he knew his hiding spot would be inadequate if someone really wanted to get him, but the tightness of it still made him feel slightly better. There was something secure about being in a small and confined space, so long as it wasn't a fancy white coat with too-long sleeves that strapped to his back.

The plaster of the walls was old and soft, and although he didn't have the artistic talent he now knew B.A. had, Murdock scratched designs into it with his knife.

The designs were childish and shaky. He couldn't latch onto them properly because they were dream soft, but he did his best. Some were twig-like, some he tried to make more intricate: a star with a central eye, and a pillar of flame in the eye.

None of them felt like they were right, but he kept trying.

He also decided that if B.A. or Hannibal or Face were going to go on walkabouts in the middle of the night, he was going to fortify his bedroom door too.

* * *

><p>Face's eyes burned and felt desert dry. Previously he dripped saline solution into them for comfort, but the burn to finish this book was stronger than the discomfort in his eyes. He didn't even want to close his eyes longer than a blink, let alone stop for a moment to rest them.<p>

Truthfully, his translation was complete. But he found that if he flipped back through the pages, some of them had changed. It was like the more he read, the deeper he understood it, the more profound meaning he could glean from the printed words.

His mind skipped back to his childhood under Catholic tutelage, and he wondered if this was how the Bible was supposed to be. Profound and somewhat unfathomable, and more it was read the more impact it had. The nuns and priests seemed to think that was the case, but Face had read the Bible several times and it never affected him, never drove him and filled him with a craving need like this _Cultes des Goules_ did.

The Bible never felt like he was reaching a secret truth.

It kept him flipping from page to page. The words occasionally melted and reformed in front of his eyes, and the fluidity of them fascinated him.

If he could just work passed being tired . . . he'd worked his way passed hunger, and didn't even notice the pangs emanating from his stomach any longer. Face knew he could do it; he just had to push himself a little harder, a little further, and it would all come together.

He was distracted a little by the sounds from the hallway, of someone trying to tiptoe. It had to be B.A.; Murdock would just go, and through the wall, he could hear Hannibal making some sleep-quiet noises.

For some reason, the thought of B.A. sneaking through the house made Face grin. It also seemed to renew him, and he went back to the French book with fresh vigor.

* * *

><p>Hannibal tossed in his sheets and curled in on himself.<p>

He very rarely had trouble sleeping, but recently his nights weren't the typical respite he was used to. Odd visions assaulted him, half too shadowy and half too real to even know he was dreaming. The sounds of creaking footsteps echoed through his head tonight, faint then growing louder as they came close and then fading again, but he couldn't find and never saw the person who walked near.

With another twist on the bed, he moaned.


	14. Chapter 14

The second morning in the rental house, Murdock crept down the servant's staircase to the kitchen, and was surprised to find B.A. there.

The black man was in front of the sink, staring out the streaked window into the weed-filled backyard beyond. He didn't turn his head or make any indication he'd heard the pilot make his way down the steps, and Murdock wondered if he could just turn around and go back up to his room.

B.A. wasn't one to sneak up on. Murdock had learned that lesson hard and fast. Sometimes it was okay; sometimes B.A. was in an exceptional mood and a bit of light-hearted startle was acceptable; Murdock could sense that today wasn't one of those times.

He hadn't heard B.A. come back up the stairs last night, but truthfully, he had fallen asleep. The screaming ache in his neck reminded him painfully of that.

So maybe B.A. didn't go back to bed, which meant he didn't get much sleep. He may have crashed on the couch, or even in his van—he'd been known to do that—but Murdock wasn't getting that vibe. The black man was radiating nervous energy. He hadn't made any bit of movement since Murdock noticed him, but the air around him practically crackled with vitality.

That should have been a good thing. What kept Murdock in check was the offensive odor that struck him the moment he came closer to the kitchen.

He couldn't find an exact word to perfectly describe it. The only one that came to mind was fetid. It wasn't an odor he associated with anything except roadkill swollen with decay under the blazing sun, or a bad dog that had rolled in something long dead and rubbed up against you for petting, because it was proud.

Murdock forced down his gag reflex. That had to be imaginary, just like before. There was _no way_ B.A.—strong, talented, stoic B.A.—would smell like that. It made no sense. The man was a rock. Their rock. Sweat, gunpowder, motor oil, Indian curries after an olive branch had been extended . . . all of that was the smell of B.A.

Not rot.

Not death.

He stood on the third to last step, B.A. stood in front of the sink, and Murdock didn't know what to do to break this bizarre stalemate.

Murdock tried telling himself it wasn't real; the smell wasn't there; it was just his jacked up brain fooling him. His brain was tricksy, my precioussss, and he wouldn't be hoodwinked into playing a riddle game with it.

He'd show it.

He had said he would try to not injure to himself, but sometimes tricksy brains needed a bit of discipline. He could attempt to obey the letter of the law, though, and instead of finding a nice spot on the wall or the banister to pound it back into submission, Murdock hooked two fingers into the scabbed wound on his forehead and dug them in.

White hot pain rocketed through his skull, and as he sucked in his breath in response to it, he was pleased he was right.

There was no smell of putrefaction.

Murdock finally caught B.A.'s attention with his movement and hissing gasp. In a flash, the black man was by his side, helping him down the stairs and berating him for "bein' a crazy fool—why you _do_ that, man?"

Murdock smiled in happy relief that B.A. was normal. The grin seemed to grate on B.A.'s nerves, and that was good and normal too. Murdock could have broken into song, he was so ecstatic.

He didn't though, knowing not to press his luck.

B.A. fussed over him, grabbing a few paper towels and wetting one of them. He dabbed the fresh blood off Murdock's head and took his wrist too, to wipe the blood from his fingers. He tossed the soiled, damp towels into the sink. The forehead wound continued to ooze, and he knew repeatedly pressing a dry paper towel on it would disrupt the clotting, but Murdock seemed to expect it and seemed so stupidly pleased with himself B.A. did it anyway.

In a few minutes, the slight seeping had abated.

Murdock jumped up and thanked him profusely, and then bounced around the kitchen, throwing together a brunchy-breakfast he never asked if B.A. wanted.

He was so absorbed in the routine of it he didn't notice B.A. crumple the used, bloody paper towel and slip it into his pocket.


	15. Chapter 15

Hannibal was drawn downstairs by the sounds and smells of bacon and coffee. It was later than he expected it to be—already late morning. What was happening to him? The man who was up before dawn, before reveille, for a majority of his life just sleeping in? That didn't make any sense.

Around the edges of his skull came the faint, just-enough-to-warn pulses of a headache. Although he didn't remember actually waking up in the night, he was familiar enough with the sensation to know it was fostered by a lack of sleep. It wouldn't have come from just one night's tossing and turning, either. Maybe Murdock was right and the sea air wasn't suiting him either.

With a shake of his head that was stunted by the judder of pain that accompanied it, Hannibal slipped into a button-down shirt—a pullover brushing over his head could loosen the headache more—found his pants, and made his way downstairs. He didn't bother finding his boots yet.

He joined B.A. and Murdock at the table. Murdock got to his feet as the former Colonel came into the room, and immediately started loading a plate with food for him.

"No Face?" the pilot asked as he set the plate at the seat at the head of the table.

"Haven't seen him," Hannibal answered, and sat down. He accepted the mug of coffee gratefully and took a sip.

He expected Murdock to say something more than that, or to bound up the stairs and extract his friend from the bedroom he'd sequestered himself into, but Murdock only sank back into his chair.

The three ate breakfast; more accurately, B.A. and Hannibal dug in while Murdock pushed food around his plate. The pilot did drink several cups of coffee, and when he caught Hannibal looking at him, he forced a bite or two of food down. He hoped that the effort he took to forced himself to swallow wasn't noticeable.

'The food is fine, numbskull,' he told himself. 'You bought the ingredients and made it yourself. There is nothing wrong or tainted or rotten about it!'

Murdock's internal monologue didn't convince his palate that the eggs and bacon were edible, however. A faint echo of the smell was back; he didn't know where it came from but it made his stomach roll. He tried to cover his nausea by refilling and gulping more coffee.

Murdock realized, through his own issues, Hannibal was slightly off too. Another migraine? The Colonel ought to have those checked out by a real doctor, not some back-alley, no-questions-asked, no-reports-filed quack they were forced to find and use in emergencies. Maybe once this job was done, they could ask Mr. Smith for a discreet reference. As uneasy as the man made him, Murdock got the impression he'd know someone like that, and they could finally put Hannibal's monster headaches to rest.

"—think that's okay?"

Murdock suddenly realized the other two were looking at him, and he'd been asked a question.

"Sorry, Boss. What?"

The pinched expression on Hannibal's face came from both the increasing pounding behind his eyes and being forced to repeat.

"I asked if you and B.A. heading out in the van without me and Face was okay."

No, he really didn't want to go anywhere with anybody, but Murdock nodded, and then said, "I thought you and Face were headed to that bookstore?"

"The bookstore's within walking distance. I think a walk'll do us both good."

The pilot shrugged and nodded again.

"Good," Hannibal said, pressing two fingers into his left temple.

Many times before Murdock had teased that made him look like he was going to read someone's mind, but just as he innately knew surprising B.A. that morning was a bad idea, riding Hannibal about the weird posture meant to dull the brewing headache wasn't going to go over well either.

The older man repeated, "Good. You boys get going. If the rain holds off, you may be able to search two or three of the cemeteries today. I wrote out a list of the graves—"

"Plots," Murdock corrected.

He knew immediately from the frustrated expression that crossed Hannibal's face he should have kept his mouth shut. Bossman had a headache, bossman hadn't slept well, and bossman was not in the mood for correction and proper namings. Murdock ducked his head, the visor of his cap obscuring his face, as he waited for that vexed exasperation to rain down on him.

Instead, Hannibal took a deep breath and said, _"Plots._ I wrote out a list of _plots_ for you to check out. Can you do that? I don't know exactly what we're supposed to be looking for, but can you go there and look around and see if there's anything that might indicate something that Jones was doing? Anything that would point us in the next direction to go."

Murdock knew that Hannibal was holding his anger in check by the slimmest thread, and promptly agreed. B.A. did too, although he didn't seem as stressed by his former CO's ire.

"Good," Hannibal said for the third time. It was another indication that his brain wasn't up to speed; repeated, simple words were reserved for times when he was in pain. "Get out of here and dig something up."


	16. Chapter 16

Murdock was afraid that Hannibal would ask him to take a plate of food up to Face's room, or go up there empty handed and bring him down. But the older man didn't; he helped them clear the table and told them to get lost once the dishes were done. Quickly the other two complied.

B.A. seemed lost in his own thoughts again and dried the dishes as fast as Murdock handed them over. Murdock hurried because the odor was invading him again and he thought that leaving the house would help stop it.

In short order they were done, called out that they were leaving, and were gone.

After locating pain-killing migraine medicine, Hannibal had laid down on the couch. He heard the two of them fussing with the dishes, but the familiar squabbling and teasing was missing. That was disconcerting; he blamed it on his headache. He did not acknowledge their announcements of departure.

The room rotated very very slowly on its axis as he lay immobile on the couch.

Murdock and B.A. had been gone for a while when he finally decided he had enough control over his headache to scale the stairs again, pull Face out of his room, and get to work. Hannibal pushed himself into a sitting position and waited a moment to see if the change in altitude was going to shoot bolts of pain through his head again.

When it didn't, he got up and made his way up the stairs.

He didn't know what was going on with his Lieutenant. Face had pegged it right: he, Hannibal was the reader; Face didn't much get into books. Real life was too interesting a distraction for the conman to lose himself in the printed word. And he'd been right about another thing too. Murdock was best with languages. He would have had that damn book translated and annotated in less than a day.

But Murdock wasn't doing well. He'd been having mini-breakdowns and Hannibal didn't want to truly push his pilot. It was scary, and hard to know when to press and when to back off Murdock. No one wanted to deal with a true psychotic break.

Face was best in talking to Murdock and helping decide when his medications needed tweaking. Hannibal added that to the mental points-of-discussion list in his head.

At least B.A. seemed to be doing fine. The black man was quiet this morning during the meal. He didn't put up much fuss when Hannibal assigned him to work with Murdock, which was unusual, but shrugged off. Still, his general demeanor was attentive and almost eager.

That was good; at least he didn't have to worry about one fourth of the team, Hannibal thought wryly to himself.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he paused just a second before striding to Face's bedroom door and giving it a sharp rap.

"Temp?" he called.

No answer.

He rapped again. "Temp? You missed breakfast. We've got work to do. Let's go."

Still no answer.

Hannibal took a breath to sigh, but the disconcerting feeling of déjà vu undulating down his spine checked it. The ex-Colonel wasn't one to indulge in nervous habits, but he rubbed his hand over his mouth and chin as he stood and stared at the door in front of him.

He couldn't shake the feeling that this was like that fucking church in Innsmouth. Face in a room, not acknowledging anything, Hannibal on the outside, growing more frustrated and worried, and a solid, impassive door between them.

Hannibal resisted the urge to kick the thing. "Face! Open this door."

Once again, there was no response.

Gritting his teeth and willing away the cold finger of alarm, Hannibal reached for the doorknob. He wouldn't give into the irrational fear that this door would behave like the door on that church. He would turn the knob and open the door.

If it didn't open, he was going to break it down.

Break it the fuck down.

His heart pounding in his chest and his mouth inexplicably dry, Hannibal grasped the glass doorknob and in a quick motion twisted it and pushed against the door.

He almost gasped in relief as it swung easily on its hinges into the room.

Face looked up from the bed, where he was sitting cross-legged.

Hannibal took in the state of the room and stepped inside at the same time. His Lieutenant was a tidy man, his natural inclinations molded into habit by living in an orphanage and then joining the military. The immaculate propensity extended into his personal grooming, so even though there were only a few unfolded pieces of clothing on the floor and Face's hair was uncombed, just those two slightly skewed bits of information raised a few red flags for Hannibal.

Face was also surrounded by enough sheets of paper to cover the entire double bed. There were scribbled lines on them, but the writing was too cramped for Hannibal to read it from several steps away. The book they'd nicked from Mr. Jones's place was open in the conman's lap.

After another scan of the room, Hannibal realized Face looked terrible. He looked exhausted. His skin was sallow and his eyes bloodshot. There was a subtle twitchiness about him, as if he was being tormented by unseen bugs, but was trying his hardest not to let it show.

It wasn't common for Hannibal's quick and clever mind to be so surprised he was speechless, but this managed to be one of those times.

"Temp," he was all he managed to say.

"Hannibal," Face replied, as if they were passing on the street and had a nodding acquaintance.

"What, exactly . . . are you doing?" Hannibal asked.

Face's lips pulled back into his characteristic grin. "Reading this book," he answered, running his fingers down the open pages of it.

Hannibal had seen that movement before, when Face was with a woman he was trying to seduce—it was a feather-light caress of sensuality, of longing. Seeing him pet a book in that way made the older man feel peculiar.

"I'm reading this book, and reading this book. Like you asked me to, Hannibal. Like you ordered me to," Face continued, still stroking the pages. "I'm just doing what you ordered me to do. Read the book. Translate the book, Face. Read and tell us—"

"That's enough, Lieutenant," Hannibal interrupted. He didn't want to hear any more of the odd repetition. "I know what I told you to do. Now we've got other work to get done. Get up, get clean, and let's go. The day's half gone, and we need to get moving."

Hannibal turned to leave, and was half-way though the motion when Face said,

"No."

He turned back. "Excuse me?"

"I said no. No."

They weren't military any longer. They hadn't been for a long time. They operated in a much more democratic fashion now. But old habits die hard, and Hannibal was still held in the highest regard and deferred to as the unit's leader. Face's simple outright refusal, his strange behavior lately, plus the fact that his headache wasn't completely tamed, made the older man's hackles rise.

"What did you just say to me?" he demanded.

Face looked at him in a completely insolent manner. "I said no. You have trouble hearing me?"

The words 'old man' tacked onto the end of the question were inferred by Hannibal, but it still made him fume. It had been countless years ago that he'd taken a chance on the brassy, arrogant young man. He'd helped shape and direct him and kick his life around into something worth something, and if Face thought he'd just take that kind of shit—

"You have trouble hearing _me,_ Lieutenant?" Hannibal spit back. "I told you to get up. We're leaving. That's an order!"

Hannibal watched a hooded expression drop over the younger man's face.

Reluctantly, Face got off the bed.

"Good," Hannibal said, although his tone implied the opposite. "Let's go."


	17. Chapter 17

Once again he started to turn to leave, and once again Face replied something unexpected.

"I'm not going."

Infuriated, Hannibal spun around and closed the distance between him and Face.

"What the hell is your problem?" he shouted.

"My problem is that you're always ordering me around! Treating me like I'm an idiot, like I'm green and like I'm simple, like I couldn't possible know what to do without your omnipotent guidance—"

"When you're acting like a twelve year old, I'm going to treat you like a twelve year old," Hannibal interrupted sharply. "Got it?"

Face's eyes blazed. He stopped for a moment, and in the back of his mind, Hannibal wondered what the fuck had just happened. His headache was making a new appearance, but he should be more concerned with Face's obvious depression or whatever transformed him to this messy, disrespectful, unfamiliar person standing in front of him. Headache or no, he should be figuring out what in fuck's sake was going on with his boys—all of them—instead of having this juvenile shouting match.

But Face wasn't backing down, the pain in his head spiked again, and the rationality was shoved aside.

"You don't have the book," Face finally continued, as if that settled it.

The statement confused Hannibal, but the dead serious, dead rage in Face's voice didn't confuse him. It was the spark to ignite the fire.

"Fuck the book, Lieutenant—" he started loudly, and Face took a swing at him.

By instinct and training alone, Hannibal moved out of the way of the punch. It was another surprise in the multitude of surprises since knocking on Face's door, and he didn't even put his hands up for protection till Face came at him again, swinging low and jabbing high.

Hannibal deflected the strike aimed for his head, but missed the one to his side. He stumbled, and Face followed him, continuing to throw punches with intent.

Through the continued shock that Face wasn't letting up, Hannibal vaguely heard the younger man muttering half under his breath.

"—I have the book. The book is mine, you ordered me to read it and tell you about it, and you won't stop me—you ordered me to read the book—"

The two had sparred before. Countless times, in countless training sessions. Hannibal always gave everyone in the unit a run for their money; he may be older but he was quick and kept his strength up. He also had the somewhat admirable trait of being willing to take a punch just to get close enough to an opponent to land a decisive blow.

But his traitorous head insisted on allowing a migraine through, and damn it, Face was fast and younger too, and something was driving his Lieutenant with a fury that Hannibal had never seen before.

Face systematically beat him, raining punch after punch down on him. Most, unfortunately, made solid contact. The older man attempted to protect himself, still half wondering what in the hell what going on, and returned the punches automatically. His never seemed to connect quite as much, or with as much effect.

Hannibal regained his feet at one point, but Face knocked him back off-balance again by side-stepping and with a vicious strike to his kidney, Hannibal's knees buckled.

His head pounded from internal aches and the external battery. Blood filled his mouth and he worked to spit it versus just let it fall, but he was dazed and couldn't quite make his mouth work. On the floor, he was vaguely aware of Face standing over him, panting. The younger man's fists were still clenched, and his posture was one of pure aggression.

Hannibal had taken beatings before. He'd been on the wrong end of them, like now, and in the back of his head, knew nine times out of ten when a man beat another man into submission, the onslaught dissipated.

That was not the case here.

"I HAVE THE BOOK, HANNIBAL," Face screamed, flecks of spit flying down on the prone man on his floor. "I have the book. You don't order me around anymore! I'm more than you, I've read it, it's TOLD ME THE TRUTH—"

Still attempting to pull a proper lungful of air in, Hannibal couldn't resist as Face grabbed a handful of his hair and hauled him up. He outweighed the kid by a good ten to twenty pounds, but Face didn't even hesitate or strain as he forced the older man to his feet, and then shoved him, stomach first, onto the bed.

Hannibal, still stunned and weak, watched his blood drip and spread on the handwritten notes covering Face's bed.

Face had continued. "—I know what's real now, I'm almost there—you can't order me, Hannibal, you're not the one who knows—"

Another hard punch to the side of his head rocked him. His brain was too fuzzy from pain to comprehend why he was face down on a bed. How did he get here? Who was—?

Hannibal was too limp and his limbs too heavy to raise himself off the mattress. Face let off him for a moment, not seeming to care that whatever notes he'd taken were being ruined by wrinkling or tearing or splotches of blood. Hannibal's hearing was affected by the assault too; Face was moving to his dresser and opening drawers, but it seemed like he was half a world away instead of several steps.

He sensed, rather than felt, the younger man come back up behind him. Face yanked his shirt out of the back of his jeans, and something thin and cold made an icy line against the small of his back. The sensation made him instinctively tense. He'd had enough knives pressed threateningly against his skin in his long life that his body knew how to react to it.

Despite the menace, Hannibal still didn't seem be able to convince his arms and legs that getting the fuck up was paramount, and the knife slipped between him and his pants. He felt the blade begin sawing through the denim and fingers tearing away the fabric. But he couldn't put two and two together; he was fuzzy. The room was spinning. He was only distantly aware that this wasn't right, that something was wrong—

"—you're not the boss anymore, Hannibal, the book opened my eyes to reality, to the true reality of the world—the book taught me, and I'll teach you—"

—something was wrong, something was more wrong than Face—his unofficial second-in-command, his boy—attacking him, why was Face so angry, why couldn't he move, why—

The backs of his legs were suddenly cold. There was the dry sound of other fabric being pushed off skin, but that, like so much else, didn't make any sense. Although propped on the bed, Hannibal almost sank to the ground as Face kicked his legs apart and forced himself between his thighs.

Face caught him by the waist, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises and heaved him back onto the mattress. More papers wrinkled, tore and fell off the bed.

"You're not the boss anymore, Hannibal," Face repeated in a hiss, and pressed forward.

At the first touch of the younger man's hard-on between the cheeks of his ass, Hannibal's body decided to obey. He bucked and recoiled and thrashed. Face had leverage, however, and although Hannibal managed to half-contort his torso in an effort to wrestle Face off, Face leaned backwards enough to avoid the swing Hannibal took, followed the momentum it created, and twisted the older man's arm up into a painful hammerlock.

Through the pain, through being pressed harshly against the bed, Hannibal wrenched wildly with his other arm in a last attempt to break free.

With a snort of scorn, Face punched the other side of his head.

Ears doubly ringing now, addled, bruised . . . Hannibal had no strength left to fight back as Face took a stance between his thighs again. He wouldn't have thought there was much more pain he could be subjected to between the sharp throbbing in his twisted shoulder and the dull pulsations behind his eyes, but he still cried out at the dry burning tear as Face breached him.

The chill on the backs of his legs was made more so, contrasting with the warm rivulets of wet that ran down his thighs. The hint of copper that filled the air told Hannibal it was blood, because tears didn't smell metallic.

Face kept hold of his wrist, pressing his arm up between his shoulders painfully, and used his other hand on the back of Hannibal's neck, as if the older man might have one last ounce of power left. Hannibal, however, concentrated on making sure he could still draw breath. He twisted his neck just enough so his face wasn't smashed into the mattress. Blood and snot clogged his mouth, and he worked to remove the mass of it instead of sucking it into his throat.

He managed to spit some of it out. The viscous red liquid struck the fucking book that Face was still going on about, interspersed with the claims that Hannibal wasn't the boss, interspersed with guttural non-human noises. Face's sounds had the same rhythm as his thrusts.

The struggle and the movements jerking the bed shimmied the fucking book up against Hannibal's face. Its vellum pages were now splattered with gore, obscuring some of the words. Hannibal had a sinking feeling that that wasn't going to go over well with the man raping him, and the absurdity of the thought almost made him laugh. He had to find something to hold onto, something that would allow him to just step outside this situation for just a moment, something that he could keep the essential parts of himself in, so they wouldn't be lost.

Although the thrusts into him were still agonizing and Face repeatedly plunging into him shook everything, Hannibal searched for something, anything to tether him. Limited in his choices, his eyes settled on the writing on the book's pages.

Through blurred, teary vision and the occasional choking-coughing-sob to clear his throat, Hannibal's brain took on the task of translating the page just to block out the anguish of the physical world.


	18. Chapter 18

Beaten and cowed, with blood mixed with semen leaking from him, Hannibal was finally permitted to sink to the floor when Face was done with him. Dazed, and with the room still reeling, he only managed to half-curl up defensively.

Face didn't bother to clean himself off as he tucked himself back into his pants. He looked over the broken man on the floor in front of him with distain.

"Get up," he ordered.

Hannibal whimpered.

"Get _up_ and get _out,"_ Face said more harshly.

When the older man didn't move quickly enough, Face drew his foot back and kicked him, hard, in the thigh. Hannibal cried out, clutching at the injury, but as Face cocked his foot again, he scrabbled away on all fours as fast as he could.

Face didn't laugh as he watched him go. No expression marred his features; he was bland and dull. As he turned back to the stained and fouled bed, however, internally he was ecstatic and felt large. He was surprised this room could even contain him; so much power flowed through him. He was electric and might and authority. He was Boss, now, and he reveled at the knowledge.

He felt he wasn't quite at the pinnacle yet, he knew that, but the book had shown him how much he could truly be.

It wouldn't take much more to reach the top, and be everything.


	19. Chapter 19

Murdock had been wrong. He thought being in the house was the problem, and leaving the house would leave the problem behind. Now he knew that this particular manifestation of his psychosis—the putrid stench of rot—was going to follow along.

At least B.A. made no mention of him sitting in the passenger seat with his t-shirt pulled up over his mouth and nose. That didn't really prevent the rank odor from sinking into his lungs, but the perceived protection of the cotton made him feel better.

Who would have thought that the dank creepiness of a cemetery would be less oppressive than being in a van?

But he was able to breath almost properly again, outside. The day was as the ex-Colonel had predicted: rainy and chilly. He and B.A. went separate ways in the bone yard, Hannibal having divvied up what he wanted them to check out. The loam under his feet was cushy and the smell of ozone from the rain was a relief.

There were still occasional whiffs of decay, and once or twice he saw indistinct black shapes out of the corners of his eyes. Turning to look directly at them, they disappeared, like in Innsmouth. He blamed it on the distribution of rods versus cones in his eyes; if he only had more photoreceptive rods located centrally, he'd be able to see those things more clearly! Was color vision that much more important?

He kicked at a few weeds and jammed his hands more tightly into his jacket's pockets, curling them into fists, for warmth.

When B.A. didn't show up back at the van at their agreed upon time, Murdock tugged his cap down more securely on his head, pulling at his hair in the process. Just that little bit of physical pain helped quell a panic attack.

Taking a breath in through his nose and letting it out loudly through his mouth, he decided to try and track the black man down. Although Hannibal had written instructions on two sheets of paper, Murdock had glanced over the one handed to the mechanic and thought he could remember enough to be effective.

Being cold was just a given now, but suddenly his stomach woke up and demanded being fed. Hunger overpowered both the chill and the thought that he needed to find B.A. The phantom smell had been blown away by the wind, so he popped open the side door to find and dig through the cooler they always kept in the back. He pulled the cooler by its handle up between the seats and closer to the door.

Just as he started to lift the lid, the odor assaulted him with a vengeance. He barely held his gag reflex in check—B.A. would have his hide if he puked in 'his girl'!—and an unanticipated thought danced through his mind.

What if the smell came from the cooler? What if the smell was _in _the cooler?

That made just about as much sense as the smell of decay coming from B.A.

But Murdock couldn't shake the sudden notion that it was true.

He felt his pulse jump. His mouth was bone dry, which was a falsehood because living bone tissue was saturated with blood and fluid and even made new blood cells in its marrow so the expression was stupid and he could think of something better just give it a second—_shut up, brain, you're not helping anything here!_

His thumb inched up to his forehead, and the nail on the digit dug—just a quick, off-handed jab—into the scab there.

The flash of pain brought him back from the teetering edge of the panic attack that seemed insistent on catching up with him. Murdock chewed the thumbnail that he'd poked himself with, and thanked both it and his brain, which was only trying to help.

Refocused, he licked his lips and decided to take the bull by the horns. Tiger by the tail. Wolf by the ear—

_Brain . . .!_

Nodding to himself, he threw open the cooler's lid before he could distract himself any more.

Inside were a couple of bottles of water and some leftover granola bars.

Murdock barked a laugh. That was good. Nothing to worry about; no reason to believe that there was a rotten . . . whatever . . . just laying around in B.A.'s beloved vehicle! Just a crazy man being crazy; just his mental state going down the toilet. Nothing that getting doped up on new doses of meds couldn't fix!

Except the smell was stronger.

Murdock could have wept, but he knew he needed to hold it together. He pushed the cooler back into the rear of the van, climbing up between the seats as he did so. It caught on something, and he shoved it harder. Something scraped along the floor of the vehicle.

He glanced over the cooler to see what it was, and if it needed to be moved. It was an axe. An axe? A standard tree-chopping, fireman's tool, axe. Old and rusty. When did B.A. start keeping an axe back here? Where did he get an axe, anyway? Why did he even _have_ an axe?

Murdock couldn't come up with a 'how' and 'who' question immediately to complete the journalist's quintet, but knew if he tried hard enough, a 'who' query—such as "Who did he use it on?"—would make its appearance.

See? There it was, just like that.

Who did he use it on?

The question drew him up short. It replayed and replayed and replayed in his head. The odor spiked again, and the combination of the mental stutter and rotten smell was overwhelming; Murdock's world shrank to the back of the van, the axe in the dark, the stench all consuming. He could feel his heart kick oddly, in palpitations; a cold sweat instantly soaked him. He was going to lose it, lose his tenuous grip on sanity, lose the few bites of food he'd managed to choke down, lose the only friends he had in this plane of existence—

"What you doin', fool?"

B.A. grabbed his elbow and shook him.

The physical touch dragged him back from the knife-edge of lunacy he danced on so often, and Murdock let out a shuddering cry. Before B.A. could react, he collapsed to the floor in between the seats.

B.A. carefully extracted him from the tight space. Murdock didn't seem to be cataleptic; he was just dead weight, as if his body was done working. The black man propped him in a sitting position against the near seat. Although he was set there, he was still boneless.

B.A. didn't like that Crazy was so still and just flopped where he was placed. That insufferable itching was back in his palms, and although he'd learned it wasn't going to be enough to make it stop anymore, he squeezed the small statue in his left hand as tightly as he could.

"What were you doin', fool?" he asked again.

When Murdock continued to be unresponsive, a tickle of a malicious urge came over B.A. The contents of the back of his van weren't visible from his current position, but he threw his glance back towards the unseen weapon anyway. B.A. shook his head and fought against the red thought, though; this wasn't a bum, this wasn't someone no one would miss. This was Murdock. This was a man he'd known and lived with longer than he'd lived with some family members.

As much as the unstable pilot needed a good knock upside the head sometimes, as absolutely aggravating as he was, B.A. pushed the thoughts of using the axe on him into a far corner of his mind.

Even while he wondered if crazy blood had the same heady iron taste that would coat his tongue like normal people blood did.

But even if he could repress the impulse to casually walk around the back of his girl and retrieve his axe, he decided he wasn't going to let Murdock sit here dumb and mute.

"Murdock!" he said, dropping his voice to the 'don't-fuck-with-me' level. "You tell me what's goin' on, fool! What were you doin'?"

To his utmost surprise, the pilot answered. "I was hungry. I was looking for something to eat."

"Somethin' to eat?"

"Yeah . . ."

B.A.'s demeanor changed. This was much more normal, and he could act more normal. "That all? You find somethin'?"

Murdock shook his head. "Nothing I wanted."

"We can stop for somethin' on the way back, if you want."

He shook his head again. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry anymore."

B.A. raised his eyebrows. Murdock caught the expression.

"Really. I'm fine," he insisted, holding up his hands. With no finesse, he changed the subject. "Did you find anything? Out there, in the graveyard?"

The black man shook his head. "Nothin' worth anything. I think Hannibal's insistence about these cemeteries is way off."

He didn't add he found more scratches made in homage to his statue.

Murdock seemed relieved. "Me either. Can we go now?"

"Yeah, Crazy. Let's go."


	20. Chapter 20

Murdock made no mention of the odor to B.A., but pulled his shirt back up over his face again. B.A. didn't say anything either, and the pilot didn't know whether to be happy or upset about it. They didn't speak at all during the drive.

Murdock tried to formulate a way to ask about the axe without advertising that he'd seen the blasted thing, but his mind slipped around on mental ice and he couldn't come up with anything plausible.

Back at the rental, the two were surprised to find Face sitting at the kitchen table. Hannibal was nowhere to be seen.

The conman turned at their entrance and watched them both. His back was straight and as he turned his movements were oddly smooth, as if he'd practiced twisting his body and now he was ready to show it to other people.

Murdock wished he could see auras; that'd be a useful trait to have, wouldn't it? Then he could see what was really exuding from the man at the table. He'd be able to peer beyond the veneer—if it was a veneer—into the core of Face and decide if the grin his friend gave him was really appraising, accompanying a look up and down like he was hungry and Murdock was a steak, or if the grin and look was just one of concern for someone the conman cared about, and was worried for.

He didn't know, and didn't like it. Even as Face asked if he'd make dinner, Murdock made an excuse to leave and made his way up the back stairs to get to his bedroom.

He heard B.A. ask about Hannibal and Face reply that he'd gone to his own bedroom.

Murdock thought the Colonel must have had a more killer migraine than typical, and didn't check on him in case he finally had gotten some peace.


	21. Chapter 21

Hannibal lay on the hard wooden floor of his room. He had tried to fit under the bed, but couldn't, so settled for being as quiet and still as possible. He physically ached and mentally he felt bruised, like someone had opened his skull and rammed their fingers deep inside his brain. Those fingers made lazy circles in the soup of his thoughts, and for a long time he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or not.

Little flashes of words distracted him from the pain that pulsed through him. English in Face's slightly slanted handwriting, the faded-to-sepia curves of French, and the heavier brushstrokes from that German book way back at Mr. Jones's study flickered in front of him. Hannibal wanted to reach out and see if he could touch them, see if he could catch them in his hands and mold them together into a ball between his palms, but was afraid to move.

The words were enticing though, and he wanted to know more about them: what they felt like in his throat, what they tasted like. Then he realized he didn't need to capture them and swallow them for their taste! He could do the reverse; say them out loud and know their flavor going out!

Hannibal tried. The words were slimy things, always wiggling incorrectly off his tongue. With whispered practice, he managed one or two, and smiled triumphantly to himself.

Mouthing the words made him happy, but didn't help abate the physical pain. He dipped his fingers underneath him and grimaced at the warm wet they encountered; would he ever stop bleeding? Experimentally he shifted his legs and the skin on his thighs was pulled painfully. The blood that had dried and glued him to the floorboards hurt as it came undone.

This would never do. John Hannibal Smith, former Colonel of the United States Army, shouldn't be lying in a sticky pool of his own blood on floor of a rental in a fucking no-name town in god-forsaken Massachusetts! He was a leader of men! He was the man with the plan, and with the words that danced in front of him, he was given the promise of so much more!

He twisted his tongue around the alien lettering again, and was pleased it was easier each time.

He would reclaim his authority! He would get up, and bolstered by the words, he would show them—

—oh. But Face still had the book. Face still held the power; Face was still its chosen.

Hannibal bit his fist to muffle the sudden cry of fright. Face had been selected, Face was its consort. He retained the book, and the book retained him. There was nothing he could do to usurp the order that had been established.

But that didn't mean _others_ couldn't realize his authority, couldn't grovel to his natural dominance. He'd yield to Face because the book demanded it—it was right, it was always right, he _deserved_ the pain and humiliation Face had blessed him with—but that wouldn't stop him from making_ others_ recognize loud and clear his command.

Hannibal grinned to himself. It was his innate, automatic grin of self-assurance. There were people outside this house, in this town, that he couldn't wait to meet. He'd share the words with them, and they would submit to him.


	22. Chapter 22

Murdock made good his vow to reinforce his bedroom door that night. He was glad he did as he heard B.A. creep out of his room again. And now _someone else _was sneaking out of their respective room and down the hallway too! He didn't know which of the other two it was; B.A.'s room shared a wall with his and the others were across the hall. The final man apparently did not leave the house; Murdock heard someone talking to himself in one of those further away bedrooms, but the voice was muffled and he couldn't determine who it was.

Small fuzzy blackness tried to inch into his closet. He wished the room had no angles; somehow he thought that corners were how the murk wormed its way in. He scraped the symbols he'd tried the night before into the plaster with a fingernail; when his fingernail wore away he used the blood that oozed from his abraded fingertips.

It seemed to hold the darkness away, but he didn't know how long it would work.


	23. Chapter 23

The next day dawned. Murdock stayed secreted in his hiding spot. He needed to pee, needed to eat, but decided staying where he was for the time being a better alternative. He thought maybe he'd sneak out once he heard everyone else come back in and return to their rooms.

B.A. came back to the house just as the sun rose. He both did and didn't want a shower; blood was itchy when it was drying, but he liked being able to run his tongue over some exposed part of his body and get a mouthful of coppery salt.

Hannibal also returned soon after B.A. He'd seen his former Corporal skulking the streets of Kingsport through the night. The black man had seen him too, but very little, if any acknowledgement passed between the two. They both had different targets; they were both after different prey.

Hannibal had reaffirmed his dominance to the point he was sore in the groin and the knuckles of his fists were scraped. Sometimes, even a person being beaten got lucky enough to injure their assailant, even if it was inadvertent, and it was only because the assailant wasn't paying attention to where his punches were landing.

He'd have to scrub his hands; human mouths and teeth were notoriously germ-laden.

His crotch would need some careful attention too. Although he never got off—that wasn't the point—his member was raw too, from the number of people he'd used it on.

Face had come back to the kitchen table and watched the two come in. He didn't say anything to them, or they to him.

A silent moment of understanding passed between the man at the table and each of the men who made their way through the kitchen bathed in early light. The light was golden and should have been warming. It was not; it managed to be jaundiced and sickly coming through the window, and made each man washed-out and haggard. Their eyes, however, were overly bright with a common, furtive knowledge.

B.A. and Face looked over each other in a surreptitious way; each was cautious and non-threatening but confident. Face didn't glance at or even acknowledge the axe B.A. held easily at his side.

Eventually the black man tipped his head in deference to Face; the conman returned it and B.A. continued through the room and up the stairs.

The former Colonel came in and saw Face sitting. He hunched his shoulders immediately to show he was no threat. After quickly glancing into the eyes a shade lighter than his own and sharper than he remembered ever noticing, he even more quickly averted his gaze and hurried away.

Face's lips pulled up in a familiar gesture, but the grin was a stretched parody of his typical toothy smile.


	24. Chapter 24

There was only so long that Murdock could keep his long frame in a tight spot, no matter how hard he tried. Eventually he unfolded himself with cracking joints and involuntary gasps as cramped muscles straightened. He hadn't heard anything from outside the room for a bit, and thought it would be okay to sneak down for a bite to eat.

Very carefully, very quietly, he shifted the pile of furniture blocking his door. Moving it just enough to squeeze through the frame, Murdock noted that while the remaining bedroom doors were shut, Face's was not.

It was dark in that room, and Murdock didn't step closer, call for his friend, or even look inside. He'd seen enough horror movies to know what would happen if he did that.

Instead, he hurried down the back stairs to the kitchen. In true horror movie fashion, unexpectedly Face was waiting at the table.

Murdock almost pulled up short. A different, new odor permeated the room. It was the smell of freshly turned dirt, of damp and mold and things that should be buried. It made him wrinkle his nose before he could hide the expression, then he immediately suppressed it.

He could act, he could fake ignorance—he'd been coached by Hannibal and Face himself, hadn't he? He _wanted_ to gag. He _wanted_ to run. His instincts told him to tread lightly, however, and that turning tail was going to be incentive for Face to give chase.

Treat it like an unfamiliar dog, an inner voice—the one that was sensible with a strong survival reflex, not daredevil craaaazy—whispered. Don't give it a reason to attack. Be pleasant, be firm. Don't show fear.

He didn't like thinking of Face as an unfamiliar dog, or with the impersonal pronoun 'it', but complied with Sensible Voice.

"Morning," Murdock said.

"Afternoon," Face corrected, cocking his head.

The odd movement reminded him of a praying mantis. An insectile comparison wasn't any more comforting than canine.

Murdock forced a chuckle. _"Afternoon?_ Man, I've been out of it."

Face studied him, and his expression shifted. It still wasn't a comforting thing to see; it was like something rearranged itself under his skin. There was no name for the look Face wore now.

Murdock resisted the urge to rub his eyes or poke his scabbed forehead.

"Are you feeling okay?" Face asked.

"No," he answered honestly. "I've been . . . queasy."

He didn't have to be _completely_ honest.

Face was nodding. Again, the motion was slightly off. Like the string connecting him to his puppeteer wasn't taut enough—

Murdock risked closing his eyes and swallowing. He needed to stop trying to categorize his friend, he needed to quit coming up with these horrible analogizes, he needed to keep it together—

He could imagine Face still nodding with a loose ball-bearing neck. "Let me take care of you, buddy," his best friend's voice said. "You've been under a lot of stress. Let me help make you feel better."

Murdock was afraid that when he opened his eyes, he'd find that Face managed to move silently out of his chair and would be standing uncomfortably face-to-face. At the imploring request, however, he couldn't stand idle and hope that Face would just leave him alone.

Opening his eyes, he was relieved that Face hadn't gotten up from the table.

"N-no, no," Murdock insisted, trying to make his voice sound dismissive and not thankful he wasn't anywhere near. "I'll be fine. I just want some dry toast and then I'm going back upstairs to lay down."

Face's blue eyes took him in, piercing him as if they could see clear to the back of his mind. After a second, he nodded once more.

"Okay, Murdock. Get some rest. There's still lots to do."

Murdock returned the nod.

Face stood up. He came closer; Murdock worked hard not to flinch as the damp earth smell moved with him. Clasping the pilot's shoulder, Face looked him up and down one last time, grinned, and said,

"You need me. I'll take care of you."

Murdock managed to nod and not pull out of the grip. Face's grin widened, and he turned and made his way to the back door. In a moment, he was outside, taking the moldy odor too.

Murdock wasn't entirely happy he was out loose in this town, but wasn't ashamed that he was happier Face wasn't in here with him any longer.


	25. Chapter 25

Afraid that Face would burst back in and catch him in a lie, Murdock did throw some bread in the toaster and settled with his back against the wall to wait for it to brown. He made sure to stay away from the windows, the door, and the corners of the room. He also positioned himself so he could see all the entrances into the kitchen, in case someone would attempt sneaking up on him.

That was a lot of things to keep in mind, and he couldn't wait to get back upstairs to his bedroom where, with the exception of the damned angles of the walls, there was only one door.

* * *

><p>B.A. opted not to shower; the itching had lessened during his night hunt and he didn't really want it to start up again. He fell into the sleep of the dead. The axe lay half-under the bed, and was within easy reach. The little statue, made darker by the layers of blood he'd coated it with overnight, rested in the crook of his neck. He clutched at it protectively in his sleep.<p>

* * *

><p>Hannibal slept too, but his slumber was fitful and uneasy. Those words drifted tantalizingly in front of him, teasing him, and he wanted to know more. He would have to be patient though; there was no foreseeable way to take the book from Face. The younger man wouldn't hesitate to permanently injure him, he knew, and also knew that if the book had laid claim to him, he'd feel the same way and do the same thing.<p>

He'd bide his time, and be happy and grateful with whatever scraps Face gave him.

* * *

><p>Face sat on the ground at the end of the yard, near the boundary of weeds that marked the next lot, and stared off into nothing. Time was fast approaching to make a decision.<p> 


	26. Chapter 26

Chewing his fingernail, Murdock rested the side of his head on his closet wall and thought back on all that that happened in less than a week. He smelled things that weren't real. He saw things that weren't there. He was paranoid for no solid reason he could determine; none of his teammates or anyone else had done anything, not anything _really_, to him.

He didn't know where this terror came from, and he didn't know what to do about it.

In the past, Murdock had had breakdowns that left him dazed and unaware of his own mental state. This was different, though; this time he could look back and see each event with the clarity of a person with a healthy brain. There was no missing time. There were no blank spots in his memory.

If this was a brand new type of insanity, he didn't like it. He didn't want it.

Even if the team needed to finish this job, he needed out. He was a liability, he was unstable, he was C.R.A.Z.Y. and no one should have to deal with that. He needed to talk to someone about it.

Murdock glanced at the corners of his room where tiny undulating strands of darkness were creeping through. Twisting his fingers into a gesture that came to him in a dream, the tendrils retreated slightly. His mouth dipped downward in a frown, he nodded grimly to himself, and Murdock squeezed back out of his room.

Stepping diagonally across the hall, Murdock tapped lightly on Hannibal's door. He'd skirted the still-open door of Face's room and stood further down the hallway rather than being close to that gaping maw.

After a few seconds, he tapped again, and Hannibal's scratchy, sleep-filled voice answered.

Carefully, Murdock turned the door knob and cracked open the door. Hannibal had drawn the heavy drapes and his room was as black as Face's. Although he could hear his former CO on the bed, Murdock could barely see through the gloom. There was a smell here too, wafting out of the dark: it smelled of dried saliva and sweat, with a meaty base note of something he couldn't quite put his finger on . . .

It made him hesitate to enter, even as Hannibal bid him to.

Even if he wasn't comfortable going into the room, he was resolute in his decision to get this out. After Hannibal gave up asking him to step inside and instead just asked him what was wrong, Murdock stammer-started.

He'd typically go to Face with problems like this. He respected Hannibal, enjoyed his company, but Hannibal was the boss. Face was more at his level, more willing to listen and not just solve problems. Murdock wasn't quite sure how to tell Hannibal that he'd become leery of his best friend, that he was uncomfortable with the vulpine cast to his best friend's grin, that he had the ridiculous impression that Face wanted to eat him.

There was also the matter of B.A.'s sudden artistic talent, drawing that blasphemous figure. The mechanic had said he would stop, and he was no liar, so Murdock had no reason not to trust him . . . but the intensity with which Murdock had seen him working on it wasn't one to just quit cold turkey. He may not sketch any more, but that didn't mean it wasn't still festering in his head. That needed addressed.

And then there was matter of the phantasmagorical aromas too. Murdock had never had olfactory hallucinations before. It was new and worrisome, and he needed advice on that too.

"Hannibal . . ." the pilot started, and paused, wishing he'd written notes or an outline to keep on track. His hand made a shifty move to his forehead; he willed it away and allowed it to scratch his chest instead. He watched his fingers bunch and release the fabric of his shirt. "Hannibal, I think . . . I think I'm having problems. I think I'm . . ."

"Going insane?" Hannibal's deep voice filled in.

Murdock glanced into the dark, towards the bed. That was a curious response. Everybody knew he was insane; they had papers with ink signatures and seals on them prove it! The former Colonel never fussed too much about his pilot's mental issues even when they raged and caused Murdock to scream and self-injure. He simply did what needed to be done: whether helping adjust meds or re-bandaging gouged arms or holding Murdock in bed if Face wasn't available.

Hannibal never used the word insane. He never labeled it, like everyone else did. It was just part of Murdock, part of his team, and he dealt with it like everything else in his life.

Murdock forced a dry swallow. His throat made a tiny clicking noise. He felt like he should make himself chuckle, like he did earlier with Face to throw suspicion off his trail, but didn't think he could actually make a chuckle sound half-way normal anymore.

"Uh. Well. Right," he muttered instead, to answer the question. "I-I think there's things going on. Nothing is right, and it hasn't been right since we drove in and that river followed us. The Miskatonic is an ugly river, did you notice? It's shit brown and sluggish, and just looks wicked—"

This wasn't the track he'd wanted to take. Who cared about the dumb Miskatonic River? And anthropomorphizing a river certainly wasn't going to help his case; it was only going to make Hannibal think he'd already gone off the deep end. Get back on track!

"And not only that, but there are things around us," Murdock continued. "I saw one in Innsmouth. I've seen them here. I don't know if they tailed us or what. They're in the graveyard. In the corners, here in the house. Black things. Sooty and oily things. They're nosing in—"

He was babbling now, and still not making the points he needed to make. He needed to tell Hannibal about Faceman, and his hungry look. He needed to tell Hannibal about B.A.'s offensive artwork. He needed to tell Hannibal not only about the wispy tendrils, but the putrid odors, the smell of death—

Murdock heard Hannibal shift on the bed, and then move off it. Bare feet padded closer, although not yet close enough to see anything more than a vague impression of his former CO.

"—and they're trying to get to me, I've been trying to keep them away but I don't know how much longer I can hold them off—"

Murdock knew he'd descended into paranoid speech; that was a hallmark of a true breakdown; there seemed nothing he could do to stop the flow of words now. They wanted out, they wanted heard—they weren't the right words, though, and he needed to make sure Hannibal understood why—

"—they've sticky bits, and every time I look they've stuck a little closer—I don't know what'll happen when they get a real foothold—"

—why he was so scared, why he was so desperate to leave this assignment; that's what he ultimately wanted, right? To leave New England, leave these forsaken sea ports and Mr. Smith and his horrid request and Mr. Jones and his horrid research and maps and books—

"—and I think if they touch me they'll seep in and fill in all the spots that I'm not, all the space between my cells and eventually they'll replicate, like a virus, and finally lodge into my thoughts, lodge into my soul like a splinter and they'll fester—"

Hannibal was closer now.

—Mr. Jones' fucking books; why did Hannibal give Face that book, that fucking book, why did Face latch onto it like it was a life preserver in a stormy sea, why did no one else see that fucking book was profane and—

"—and their splinter teeth with gnaw away my me-ness until I'm hollow—"

Murdock's gibbering, disjointed explanation cut off in a physical retch as Hannibal stepped close enough to be seen in the spillover light from the hallway. Another wall of odor assaulted him: the smell of spit and sweat, like he'd already marked, but now the unmistakable stench of maggots permeated the air, and there was still that fleshy under note of—

Semen. Sex. Hannibal smelled of rut.

Murdock gagged again at the unexpected combination of smells, and the sight of his former Colonel made him reel.

Hannibal stood, gaunt and grey, in the pale light. His clothing was torn and dirty and the deep brown stains on it were most definitely blood, and Murdock was sure it was the same shirt he'd been wearing yesterday morning. Hannibal had been beaten too; Murdock had seen enough men thoroughly thrashed to know what that looked like, and he wondered, horrified, who could have broken the older man's nose, blackened his eyes, and made blood run from both ears.

Murdock didn't acknowledge the voice in his head that whispered the name of his best friend.

It was obvious Hannibal hadn't attended to any of the bruises or wiped clean any of the blood that had poured from him. The stains on the front of his shirt matched the evidence of dried blood on his neck.

The older man stared dully at Murdock, not responding to the alarm and horror that radiated from his pilot. He opened his mouth just a bit, just enough for Murdock to see his tongue work a tooth that was clearly loose in its socket. Fresh blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Hannibal made no move to wipe that new blood away or spit it out. When he spoke, it was with a slow thickness that advertised his mouth was filled with gore.

"Maybe you're not insane enough," the former Colonel counseled.

Murdock scrambled away, back to his room, clawing at the door to get back inside before Hannibal could speak again or come any closer. Once inside, not caring about the noise he made, he pushed the furniture against the door again for its make-believe protection.

The inky, feathery blackness had crept further into the room, and Murdock's shaking hands couldn't make any sign to shield him. He crawled back into his closet and willed himself back down from a panic attack.

Automatically his fingers traced the symbols he'd put on the inner walls in scratches and blood. That soothed him a bit.


	27. Chapter 27

His stomach grumbled; his neck and legs were cramped. His head was filled with swirling, slippery thoughts, like a swarm of eels in murky water. Questions that had no answers. Thoughts that threatened to undo him. In the midst of it all, there was a clue, a hint of something that should have been seen all along, of something that would fix all this.

Murdock chased that particular idea as fast as he could. However, it was greasy like the others, and was hard to latch onto and pick apart and really delve into. He tried though, even as he tried to turn a blind eye to the more hideous thoughts populating his brain.

He also held his knife pressed to his chest. His sidearm was in the van; Hannibal didn't mind his men wearing them, but Murdock preferred not to unless ordered or they were working directly on a job. In their temporary lodging, he never felt the need. He wished he'd had the foresight to take it when he had the opportunity yesterday.

_If wishes were horses . . ._

There was no protection by blade or by bullet from the tendrils growing bolder in the corners. From men, however—

A knife wasn't the best choice for defense against three highly trained Rangers, but it was better than nothing.

The metal of the knife never seemed to warm, but he knew that was an illusion. It would leave a cold spot if he moved it away from his chest, but Murdock did not loosen his grip on the weapon.


	28. Chapter 28

The time was now. Face sat on the cold ground, in the cold air, thinking cold thoughts. He waited patiently until a new notion came into his head; he wouldn't have been able to articulate whether it was his own internal voice or something else with malicious intent.

Maybe he'd have come to this conclusion sooner if he'd brought the book out with him. It didn't matter. The book called to him now, and his mind filled with proper rites and words.

He needed the book and the map and the three men who were in the house.

It was time to go.

* * *

><p>Face returned to the house and made his way to his bedroom. He found and tucked the book into the inner pocket of his jacket. He rapped sharply on the three closed bedroom doors and stood in the hallway with his head hanging, listening intently to the whispering coming from inside his jacket. His head snapped up as B.A.'s door opened.<p>

The big man stared out at him, body language exuding threat and menace. Face ignored the obvious tensing of a man pumped with adrenaline ready to fight and returned the dark stare steadily.

After a moment, a very slight amount of warning left B.A.'s stance. There was the possibility that he heard the sighing speech from inside Face's inside pocket, and that was the reason he ceded.

Although no words were spoken by either man, B.A. nodded sharply and disappeared back into his room for a moment.

In that second, Hannibal's door came open too.

Face turned and locked eyes with the older man. Hannibal ducked as if expecting a physical blow, and didn't raise his gaze again. The book may have murmured to him as well.

The same understanding he and B.A. settled on passed between them, and he stepped out into the hallway.

Hannibal continued to project deference with hunched shoulders and averted eyes even as B.A. joined the two of them.

The three waited in the narrow hallway, but there was no response from Murdock's room.


	29. Chapter 29

The pilot had heard the knocks and heard the shuffling of feet outside his door, but didn't hear any voices. All the sound stopped, in fact, and he strained so hard to hear from inside his closet his ears filled his head with the empty white noise of an imagined far off surf, just for something.

Carefully, he cracked the closet door and looked out.

A thundering knock on the bedroom door made him cry out and jump.

"Murdock! Murdock, buddy! Come on. We've gotta go!"

It was Face's voice, Face's smooth, deceptive voice, Face's normal voice. Faceman was talking to him in his normal way, calling him buddy, asking him to come out.

"Let's go, man. I told you there was still lots to do!"

Face's voice Face's voice Face's voice . . . but was it Face himself? Was it a puppet, was it a shade, was it a homunculus made in the shape of his best friend?

Murdock whimpered in paralyzed fear. The shadowy wisps in the corners grew bolder, lifting themselves off the surfaces to nose the air.

The deafening knocks came again, a tight fist slamming on the wooden door.

"Murdock! We're leaving! Get out here!"

Face's voice took on a sharper tone.

"Right now, buddy. If you don't come out, we're coming in."

Even sharper now; the voice of a CO who demands to be obeyed. It was like Hannibal's voice, back when they were in the military.

And now Murdock saw the doorknob twisting, and the unmistakable sound of someone pushing against the door in an effort to open it. When it didn't budge—oh, thank heavens above that there'd been enough solid wooden furniture to fill the space between the door and the opposite wall!—the pounding came again.

"Murdock! Open this door right now. Come out here right now!"

Face's voice lost its velvet edge completely and was raw anger and command.

Murdock flinched again.

The pounding, the drumming, the jackhammering on the door filled the room and suddenly Murdock realized one of the inky strands of infinite blackness had almost reached him. It was a mere inch away.

That was scarier than a monster in the shape of his friend attempting to break down his door, and Murdock scrabbled up and away. In his panicked haste to get away he cracked his head on the shelf in the closet with enough force to rock him. He grasped at the unlatched closet door but it offered no support, swinging on its hinges. He lost his balance and fell back, striking his head again.


	30. Chapter 30

It must have been only a few seconds of blissful unconsciousness, because when Murdock opened his eyes, the pounding was still shaking his door. The room seemed brighter though, and an alarmed glance around him showed that there were no black tendrils invading the room.

Face was still calling to him.

"Murdock! Murdock! Come on, buddy, please! Let us in!"

His best friend's voice didn't have the underlying tone of intimidation. Now it just sounded worried and scared.

Murdock sat up, and the last piece of the puzzle fell into its place. It was what he'd been looking for, that little nugget of information he almost knew but couldn't grasp. A shaky hand ran tenderly through his hair; fingers came away sticky from new blood.

But he had the answer, he knew what was missing, and now they could finish and get off this fucking assignment.

Murdock got to his feet, left his knife on the floor of the closet, and went to the door. He needed to get to his teammates, his friends, his brothers.

Soon this would all be over.

* * *

><p>He shoved the bedroom furniture haphazardly out of the way of the door just enough to squeeze through. He smiled sheepishly as he cracked it and shimmied out, opening his mouth to apologize, to begin the self-deprecation comments to joke that he knew his wiring was jacked up and impulses weren't getting to the correct synapses, to tell them the missing piece of information that they hadn't discovered after visiting Mr. Jones's house.<p>

Murdock's newly realized comprehension that he was the problem, his _brain _was going all wonky like times before, the _world_ was okay and _he_ was not, came crashing down quicker than a sandcastle against the waves.

The combination of fetid odor and the sight of the three men whom he trusted and valued above all else in the world made the floor jelly.

Murdock lost his balance and although the strongest survival voice in his head screamed at him to get away, he unfortunately didn't fall back into his room, but against the wall.

Hannibal he had already seen, but a second look in better lighting didn't make the shock of it any less. The air around him oozed broken submission, and made the horror that much worse.

B.A.'s dark skin was darker and flaky, and Murdock didn't argue against the voice behind his ear that said it was blood. And not his blood either; he looked fit and hale. The black man was holding that damnable axe too, cradling it like it was his new best friend. Murdock got the distinct impression that that axe would have been used on his bedroom door if he hadn't opened it from the inside.

And speaking of best friends . . .

Face leered in a rigor mortis smile before him, dirty and unkempt. His complexion was waxen and his eyes too bright against the greyish-yellow gauntness of his face.

Murdock had seen that look before—_not __in __his __friend__'__s __eyes, __never __from __his __best __friend!_—in psych wards. It was the look men wore when they were hungry for someone else, when they were going to attack and do some real damage. It was the look men wore when they were being dragged from communal rooms to isolation, for other's protection.

Face's grin was a predator's false smile, too, and his teeth looked too sharp.

Murdock knew the expression and the sharpened teeth had to be just another manifestation of his mind, like the odor of putrefaction, like the black tentacles in the corners . . . but then again, maybe not.

Face's lips were bleeding from where his teeth sliced into them.

The smell of maggots and blood and semen overwhelmed him and crawled down his throat, pushing against his gag reflex.

A very quiet, very distressed moan slipped from the pilot's mouth.

"Murdock," Face said.

Now Murdock could imagine worms wriggling in the sound of his best friend's voice.

"We're leaving."

This was the chance. This was the opportunity to tell them what he figured out, what the solution to the problem was so they could leave and get back to normal and not read books about ghoul cults or look at blasphemous carvings or lurk around ancient cemeteries.

Murdock started, "F-Face, listen, I got it—"

"We have a bit of a drive, and we need to get there as soon as possible."

"—I just realized what was wrong! I just realized what we should have seen all along, right from the start! At Mr. Jones's house—"

"Let's get going. There's lots to do when we get there as well." Face turned on his heel and started away, down the hall. B.A. stepped aside to allow him to pass, and Hannibal cowered back.

Murdock wasn't going to dare touch him—touch any of them—but his voice rose to become pleading and desperate.

"Listen, Face! We have to go back to Arkham, we have to go back to Mr. Jones's house! We have to—"

Face whirled. "We're going to the stone altar," he spit.

"—to tell Mr. Smith—"

"We're going to the stone altar!"

_"—that Mr. Jones is still there, Facey!"_ Murdock cried, refusing to be bullied. "Mr. Jones is still there! Where else could he be—his book was there, he wouldn't have left his book, it's his book you have—"

"_It__'__s __my __book!__"_ Face roared. Both Murdock and Hannibal ducked; B.A. stood stoically watching the scene. "It's _my_ book, the book came to _me!_ We're going to the stone altar and we're completing what needs completed!"

Any lingering idea that this was all an illusion created by a fractured and frail mind bolted. Murdock tried to get back into his room, but B.A. grabbed his upper arm and hauled him down the stairs after Face and a quivering former Colonel. The pilot tugged and protested and would have gone as far as complete frenzied attack or complete passive dead-weight resistance if he thought either would have done any good.

The lumbering resolve of B.A. made struggling useless, even if he didn't carry a well-bloodied axe to emphasize his point.

The cloud of decay went with them, and as Murdock glanced wildly for anything to help him as he was dragged to the van, he saw the creeping black wisps again, slipping down the stairs behind them.


	31. Chapter 31

Murdock brought the van to a bumpy halt in front of the gothic house in Arkham, leaving it parked slanted on the wooden street. He burst into through the front door of the place without knocking, and charged down the hallway to the study.

"You knew about this, didn't you? Didn't you?" he shouted as he entered.

The man before him, the man in the impeccable jacket and pressed trousers, the man who hired them for this nightmare, stood and gave a slight wave of his hand. When Mr. Smith deigned to answer, his voice was off-handed and held no concern. "I had my suspicions."

"You knew and you sent us anyway! _You __fucking __worthless __piece __of __trash__—"_

Suddenly his hand grasped the weapon held in the waistband at the small of his back, and before he consciously made the decision, Murdock stepped forward and held his gun to the man's head.

"Please. Captain Murdock," Mr. Smith said, in a voice that was more bored than concerned. "Yes. I had some very good suspicions that things could go . . . poorly. Which is why I hired you—your team—to take care of it. Colonel Smith mentioned you four could take care of problems that no one else could, did he not?"

Murdock cocked the gun, trying to look grim, but his hand trembled now.

"And where is Colonel Smith? And Lieutenant Peck? The Corporal?"

The shake in his hand became so much he wasn't really effectively a threat to the man any longer.

"Th-they're d-d-dead. I had to . . . I had to . . ."

"Had to what, Captain?"

"I HAD TO KILL THEM," Murdock screamed. Just as nothing else had affected their employer, a grown man shrieking in his face didn't even make him jump. "They were infected, they wanted to kill me, I had to protect myself and protect everyone else—"

"And I'm sure you did a good job," Mr. Smith interrupted in a parody of soothing. "Now. Do you want another first degree murder charge brought against you?"

The ex-pilot, the ex-Captain, stopped his gibbering explanation.

"I'm thinking that maybe the other three won't be found, and you'd escape the law. But me? Killing me would most definitely land you in prison, and then they'd find out about your teammates. So is shooting me worth it? Hmm?"

Murdock stared at him, stared at the gun in his hand, and his fingers were suddenly too wooden to hold it. The weapon dropped to the floor.

"Excellent. Now, I'm assuming you have the carving . . . ?"

Murdock retched, pitching forward and bringing up thin bile. The man watched in distaste but made no move to help.

"The _carving,_ Captain Murdock."

With the same wooden fingers, Murdock drew the piece from his pocket. His jacket seemed icy cold inside, as if the statue left a black hole there. He hadn't even known B.A. had the carving in his coat. He hadn't wanted to touch it, it was like the fucking book and made his stomach churn, but something compelled him to take it. He at least had enough control of his actions to remove a sock from one of the dead men so he wouldn't have to touch it barehanded before picking it up.

If Mr. Smith asked for the thin book, the book that started this entire nightmare, Murdock didn't know what he'd do. He'd been unable to destroy it, just as he was unable to destroy this statue, but at least it was left behind.

Left behind with the mangled bodies of his teammates.

Murdock had been happy his handgun was under his seat as he had left it, and happier than none of the others seemed to notice him reaching for it and hiding it as they drove to the stone altar marked on Mr. Jones's map.

He'd kept it hidden as they reached the spot and the three others made ready by unspoken agreement whatever it was they were going to do. Murdock hadn't joined them, which they also seemed to ignore, but he had a feeling deep in his gut that he'd have a part to play before it was all said and done.

He didn't want that, and so, when Face stood at the head of the stained altar muttering of The Black Goat with a Thousand Young and started an inhuman, alien chant,

"Iä! Iä! Shub-Niggurath—"

Murdock stepped up behind what was once his best friend and pulled the trigger of his gun to silence it.

He didn't quite remember doing the same to what had been B.A. and Hannibal, but he must have. He did know muscle memory was an amazing thing—he hadn't chopped wood since he was a teenager, but the action was familiar and easy. Even if the axe wouldn't strike the book, and glanced off the small statue in B.A.'s pocket, it did fine work on the men.

But Mr. Smith didn't care about that, and clapped his hands as Murdock set the statue gracelessly on the desk. He didn't ask about the book.

"Excellent!" He crowed the word with much more enthusiasm than before. "I have to say, Captain Murdock, that I'm so pleased you could carry out your contract. I know you're probably not feeling yourself right now—"

Who else would I feel, if not myself? Murdock thought fuzzily. The room was beginning to spin very slowly, and the dark things, the shadowy tendrils were creeping in along the angles in the corners. He retched again, but only excess spit came out this time. A smoky strand of nothingness whipped its way to the wet spot of bile and saliva at his feet and caressed his ejected bodily fluids.

"—and I know you're due your fee," Mr. Smith continued.

Did he not see what was invading the room? How could he not_ see?_

"You're a very lucky man, Captain Murdock! I have a lot of influence in town, and as a token to you, in lieu of monetary payment, I've taken the liberty of setting up permanent residence at our esteemed Arkham Sanitarium. Don't worry about the bills; it will all be taken care of. You've been in institutions before, I believe?"

Murdock heard he was being asked a question, but his entire focus was on the wisps taking some kind of perverse nourishment from his vomit.

Mr. Smith didn't seem to care he hadn't answered, and waved his hand again. "Well, I'm sure you'll find it most suitable. It's well prepared for many long-term guests. I'll have my man drive you there. I'd ask that you go quietly, please. Kicking and screaming is so cliché, don't you think?"

Deadened, Murdock submissively nodded. Another man came and took his elbow, and he meekly went to the waiting police car outside. He didn't look back; he didn't want to see the darkness follow him. He knew it would. It had his taste now. It would tag after like a trained dog.

He didn't want to see it oozing along, forming the subtle shapes of his former teammates'—his former brothers'!—faces. There was nothing he could do about it.

Mr. Smith asked politely for him not to scream, but he didn't say anything about laughing.

Murdock laughed and laughed and found himself drooling so he tried to use his fingers to push the spit back in—the tendrils had had enough from him today, didn't they? No need to be greedy! He laughed some more and did start screaming at some point.

His hands were still in his mouth when the man rabbit punched him in the back of the head to shut him up, but even the sharp pain of biting through the skin of his fingers didn't prevent him from continuing to laugh-scream.

He thought he'd never stop.

_fin._


End file.
